I love opera, bluegrass, burger joints and fictional detectives. Mostly, but not always, in that order. Formerly of Dunedin, formerly of Sydney, now travelling the world with the tenor in my life (Stuart Skelton) and blogging as I go.
Handel operas have taught me not to worry too much if the plot of an opera is impenetrable on paper. It's usually much clearer when it comes to life. I've not yet had the chance to apply this theory to Meyerbeer's Il Crociato in Egitto, still one of the more confusing operas of my acquaintance – although that's partly because all the characters have names beginning with 'A'– but it was a heartening thought on Friday when I headed into the Opéra Bastille for my first ever Khovanschchina. Attempting to study up on the plot ahead of time would be futile, Twitter had assured me, and even my date – a former Prince Andrei himself – was fuzzy on what it was all about.
Fair enough. I've seen it now, and while I have a vague grasp on the contours of it – Tsar vs Streltsy vs Old Believers – I wouldn't want to be quizzed on the details. In fact I realised fairly early on that life would be much simpler if I just enjoyed Khovanshchina as a series of related historical tableaux rather than one ripping yarn, so that's what I did. Of course, the French-only surtitles did intensify the mental gymnastics of the thing but for the most part I got the gist, if not of the factual intricacies, then at least of the emotions at play: and that's what opera's really about, isn't it? Even the dense historical ones.
Not a huge surprise, then, that my favourite aspect of Khovanshchina was Marfa. Old Believer/fortune-teller/Prince's ex and all round interesting person (oh, and martyr) sung and acted wonderfully by Larissa Diadkova, one of few names in the cast that were familiar to me. Next time, Mussorgsky, consider just writing an opera about her: she's definitely fascinating enough to carry one. Of the names I didn't know, I was especially taken by bass Orlin Anastassov (Dosifei) and baritone Sergey Muzaev (Chakloviti), both of whom sang so fantastically well that even I forgot to mourn the relative dearth of sopranos. Vladimir Galouzine was unflagging, too, as Prince Andrei, even if his wig did make him look like 17th century Russia's answer to Bill Bailey. Gleb Nikolsky, meanwhile, looked every inch the part as Prince Ivan Khovanskhi: bearded, swaggering and apparently about nine feet tall.
Mussorgsky's score was as swirly and stormy and full of eerie choruses as I expect my Russian opera to be – thanks for your help there, Shostakovich, and yours too, Maestro Jurowski (the elder) – and matched pretty well by Andrei Serban's production, with its menacing slabs of concrete and bleak backdrops brightened only by the soldiers' red coats and a splash here and there of rococo excess. The staging of the final martyrdom-by-fire was especially effective, as the ascetic Old Believers peeled off black robes to reveal white ones underneath, then slowly departed, so that the discarded robes (now being gradually engulfed by smoke and ash) suddenly, and disturbingly, resembled charred remains.
Precisly what happened in the four hours (including intermissions in an inexplicably freezing foyer) leading up to this funeral pyre, I'm not sure I could say. I know Prince Andrei kept stubbornly proclaiming his love for Emma despite her obvious lack of interest. I know Marfa treated him much better than he'd treated her. I know Khovanskhi was assassinated after partaking of some dancing slaves. And I know that nobody – unseen Tsar included – was very happy about any of the above. Hey, it's Russian opera: the misery (and the music) is what makes it so good.
Another video. Completely unlike the last in almost every way but at least as fabulous. Here's Sarah Connolly in an aria from Charpentier's Medea, opening soon at the ENO. I had grand plans to go to this but the practicalities are proving problematic. In the meantime, a daily viewing (or two) of this gorgeous video might just keep me going.
Listening to Glyndebourne's 2010 Billy Budd yesterday – recommended, incidentally – I was inspired to return to this hilarious video from YouTube user (and operatic humorist) beepela. Could any synopsis or programme notes encapsulate the opera quite so perfectly? And has any opera company hired this guy to run their digital marketing yet?
(Fair warning: it's a bit of an earworm. At least it is for me.)
Popoloso deserto or not, this is where we're headed tomorrow and where we'll remain for about two months and seven – count 'em, seven – performances of Die Walküre. Yes, I am a little excited. It's not my first time, but it will be my first time with proper music: the first time I was there, I was more into Julie Andrews than opera and the second time I managed to land smack bang in the middle of everybody's off season. Well done, me.
Now Paris is making it up to me. I have a couple of tickets booked, for two potentially not dissimilar concerts: Vivica Genaux at the Salle Gaveau, singing Handel, Hasse and Vivaldi, and Joyce DiDonato a week later, bringing her Drama Queens tour to the Théâtre des Champs Elysées: Handel again, Hasse again, plus Monteverdi, Giacomelli, Gluck and Haydn. With the possibility of Alice Coote in La favorite sandwiched in between, it's going to be a mezzotastic seven days.
And there's so much more on my shopping list. Marie-Nicole Lemieux singing the Sea Pictures and as Quickly in Falstaff, Joe Calleja doing his irresistible Lanza tribute thing, concerts at Versailles by Véronique Gens and Patricia Petibon, and performances of La damnation de Faust, Khovanschina, Radamisto, Der Zwerg, L'enfant et les sortilèges and King Arthur, none of which I've ever seen live.
That's not even all of it, and I'd be willing to bet there's stuff I haven't even found out about yet. So, let the crowdsourcing begin. Your advice on what to see and where to sit will be gladly received, as, for that matter, will any clever tips about Parisian tourism in general. I've been sightseeing there before, but hey, it's Paris: there's always more to discover.
I swear I don't go trawling for mystery novels with operatic content: they just seem to find me. The latest, which I finished at an unspeakable hour this morning, is Ben Aaronovitch's Rivers of London, the first in his Peter Grant series and sent to me in Kindle form by my friend Marian, the most voracious reader I know and possibly the only person left in the world who's game enough to give me books for Christmas. So far she has always been spot on.
This one, as she warned me, was not exactly my usual style. Which is to say: it was published within the last decade, is set in the present (not the Wimsey-Poirot-Alleyn '30s) and features magic. I'm not really a magic kind of girl – Harry Potter excepted – but the blurb made it sound like grown-up Harry meets Thursday Next, and since it came with Marian's recommendation, I plunged right in.
She told me I might like the London-centricity of it and she was right. I've always loved the little frisson of recognition when you spot a place you know in a work of fiction; I still remember how excited I was a decade or so ago when I read The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas while actually in Paris, and realised – from the book rather than my own explorations – that Gertrude and Alice's house was just around the corner from the Alliance Française building where I was doing daily battle with le subjonctif.
Likewise, then, the game of Been There Bingo I could play with this book. Because as it turns it out, the bulk of the action takes place in the one part of London I know better than any other: the streets between Covent Garden and the ENO, basically. Aaronovitch apparently used to work at the Covent Garden Waterstones – one of my favourite places for pre-show loitering and last minute purchase of opening night cards – so I guess it's no surprise he started there. New Row, Henrietta Street, St Martin's Court and the Piazza itself all provide the backdrop – and a fairly detailed and interactive one at that – for various Bad Things. The magic elements might be fantastical, the setting is deliciously real.
All of this would have been fodder enough for my London fetish but it gets better. I don't want to spoil anything, but let's just say there's a fairly key scene which takes place actually in the ROH during a performance of – of all things – Billy Budd. Not that it's ever identified by its title (at least I don't think it is) but opera types will pick it straight away. To be fair, it's more for the necessary presence of a particular prop than for a love of Britten that Aaronovitch has chosen this particular piece, but still: kudos to him for doing his research and, it would appear, actually attending the opera before writing about it. His descriptions of the audience, while not entirely cliché-free, are preferable to some, and I particularly liked the semi-quasi cameo by someone I choose to believe was Neil Fisher. Ruth Elleson's probably in there somewhere too, come to think of it.
In the end, the operatic content here is more about local colour than music, and there's just as much esoteric geography – probably more – for experts on rivers and mythology as there is for opera buffs. But still. It was an excellent surprise in a book I would have thoroughly enjoyed anyway: it's well written, funny and handles the magical components with a clever mix of invention, science and literary tradition. Aaronovitch is also a screenwriter with a few Doctor Who connections, and both those things are reflected in his writing; there are scenes in Rivers of London which just scream out to be filmed, and at least one direct nod to the Doctor, not to mention a not-dissimilar sense of humour even in the face of unfathomable cosmic peril.
A magical mystery for opera buffs? Not really. But for opera buffs who like police procedurals, lighthearted fantasy, and London – in whatever configuration – the Covent Garden antics are a delightful bonus.
It's hard for me to resist a list at the best of times, and as New Year's Eve approaches, and half the blogosphere is posting them – while the other half rolls its eyes, no doubt, at yet another list – well, what am I to do but add my own year-in-review to the teetering pile.
Bryn Terfel It was a privilege, pure and simple, to behold the almighty Bryn as the even almighter Wotan. Last year I only saw him in Walküre and only on the green room TV screen; this year I was in the theatre for both Rheingold and Walküre and he was scintillating, occasionally hilarious and thoroughly heartbreaking. In more flippant moments I might claim not to care about Walküre after Siegmund's demise (sob) but Bryn made me care and then some.
Pamela Helen Stephen Pamela was an Opera Australia regular, and a darn good one, until the unexpected and incredibly sad passing of her husband, Richard Hickox, the company's music director at the time. I'd not heard her since, until we managed to squeeze in a matinée of the ENO's Madama Butterfly, in Anthony Minghella's dreamlike production. Usually I'm all about Cio-Cio San – pretty much inevitable since she hardly leave the stage – but Pamela's Suzuki was sung so gorgeously that I found she kept dragging my focus her way. She's even better now than she was in Australia, and I can't wait to hear her again soon.
Felicity Palmer Nobody sings Mrs Sedley like Dame Felicity. I didn't see David Alden's Grimes in its premiere season at the ENO in 2009, but when it came to Oviedo, with much of the same cast but no Felicity, they were still talking about her. I finally had my chance at the Proms and she was every bit as biting and as brilliantly grotesque as I had hoped – a sting in every word – and in fantastic voice to boot. You don't really need to make beautiful sounds as Sedley, but every now and then, she did, and was all the more striking for it.
Willy Decker Everyone I know who's seen it seems to adore David Alden's Peter Grimes, and rightly so, but nobody warned me that Willy Decker's production – long a mainstay of the Royal Opera – would knock me so completely sideways. Stark, abstract and oh-so-grey, it is one of the most devastating and memorable stagings I've ever seen of anything – right up there with my own favourite Grimes, Neil Armfield's OA production. With a simple gesture, a row of chairs or a precisely arranged crowd, Willy managed to articulate these characters' murky emotional depths as eloquently as any line in the libretto, and his silences spoke volumes. The final image of this show – Ellen crushed at last into miserable conformity – will stick with me for a long time yet.
Harry Rose If you don't know him by name, you might know him by his Twitter handle: Harry is the redoubtable @OperaTeen. I did a double take when I realised just how young this passionate fan was; I assumed he was at least seventeen, maybe older and nearing the necessity of a name change. But no. He has plenty of high school to go, and is already one of the most infectiously enthusiastic – and determinedly opinionated – voices out there in the opera blog/Twitter universe. When I was 19 or 20, and this blog was in its infancy, people thought I was pretty young for an operagoer, but Harry leaves me for dust. And even better, he's part of a hearteningly large and vocal online community of young opera devotees, whose tweets and Tumblr posts explode with pop culture references, internet memes, fangirl/boi excitement and a genuine and knowledgeable love of the art form. It truly ain't dead yet.
PLACES
Oviedo The food, the wine, the people, the beautiful theatre, the mild, sunshiney winter and did I mention the food? So plentiful, so cheap and so deliciously dependent on pork products. Oviedo might have won my heart on culinary merit alone but it was in every way a great experience. When the head of the opera board takes you to watch club rugby, because he also founded the local rugby club, you know you're in the right place, and that was just the start of it. It was the perfect city to sit back and relax in or to explore, and amid those endlessly unfolding cobblestone streets I expected Count Almaviva to appear at any moment. Cannot wait to go back.
Capitol Records Top of my Surreal Experiences of 2012 List has to be the two days we spent in Los Angeles while Stuart recorded his contribution to the as-yet unreleased Great Voices Sing John Denver, a pretty neat project in which Thomas Hampson, Rod Gilfry and many other familiar names are also involved. It happened at Capitol Records in Studio A, where Sinatra himself recorded. We were there for a few hours but believe me, it wasn't long enough to wrap our brains around that sort of history. Throw in the previous night's dinner out, where half the table seemed to have worked with Frank, and I shared my dessert with Henry Mancini's daughter, and, well, my head might just have been spinning.
Tokyo I've already written at some length here about Tokyo, so I'll try not to repeat myself too much. But it was one of the biggest surprises of my 2012 – despite my reservations and my total inability to speak the language, this mad, heaving metropolis won me over even as it confused the hell out of me. I seemed to spend two months constantly removing my sunglasses, because no matter how bright the glare, the colours of this place just scream out to be seen in their full glory.
Albert Hall It just so happened that two of the most gripping performances I saw this year happened her: the Peter Grimes Prom and Imelda May live in concert. Imelda came first, and a what a show it was. If the name's not ringing bells, that's OK – she's not an opera singer, but a throwback rockabilly goddess whose songs and singing I am completely nuts for, and whose stamina, technique and onstage charisma would be the envy of many a singer in any genre. When we saw her she was seven months pregnant, still wearing killer heels, and still singing like a woman possessed. And the next time we were there, I was in almost the same seat but Stuart, of course, was onstage with a dream cast for a concert Grimes which, in its own way, was just as thrilling and which elicited, among others, this rave review – which I swear I neither commissioned nor ghostwrote. Oh, and thanks to Ruth, I also had the chance to hang out with some proper Prommers, whose dedication to task (and picnics) is admirable.
Sydney For the first time since we've been travelling together, The Tenor In My Life actually had a gig in Sydney – his home town and my adopted home town – and what with one thing and another, publicity commitments and an outdoor concert in Canberra, we were there for about three weeks. It was pretty blissful; particularly for me, as I had no Russian operas to rehearse and thus plenty of time to catch up with everyone I'm so hopeless at emailing. The city turned on its best sunshine and water views for us – apart from the occasional deluge – and was, I admit, a bit of a wrench to say goodbye. Sydney, if you fancy kidnapping Melbourne's Ring Cycle next year – I won't hold it against you.
PERFORMANCES
Die Walküre At the Met. Twice, as it turned out, and it's hard to say which was the bigger thrill. The first was the one for which Stuart was always the scheduled Siegmund, and while it wasn't actually his Met début, it sort of was: he was finally singing one of his signature roles on this incredibly famous stage, and he nailed it. The crowd went wild. The second was the one he stood in for, flying in between performances of Dutchman in London to cover Jonas Kaufmann and then living every cover's dream: with a few days' notice, he went on. This time the crowd was expecting somebody else – somebody with a tendency to inspire pretty fervent devotion – and wouldn't you know it? They still went wild. It was a huge, huge night. (I'm not ignoring the presence of a seriously stellar cast – Bryn, Eva Maria Westbroek, Stephanie Blythe et al were all outstanding – but you'll forgive me if it's the Siegmund who dominate this particular memory.)
Bluebeard's Castle If Michelle DeYoung and Alan Held sing a concert Bluebeard with MTT and the San Francisco Symphony, you go. If they sing it three times, you go three times. At least, that's the rationale we operated on, and we were more than vindicated. Alan is everything you could want in a creepy, murderous duke – I mean that in a good way – and Michelle, of course, owns the role of Judith. With them tearing up the stage, and on three consecutive nights no less, it seemed almost lazy just to sit back and watch. Michelle is singing Judith everywhere these days: if she passes through your town, or even comes vaguely close, You Must Go.
Véronique Gens at Wigmore Hall There's plenty I could say but the reason this makes my list is simple: she sang Poulenc's "Les chemins de l'amour". Life ambition achieved.
Cheryl as Salome At last, at last. Cheryl Barker in the role she's frequently said is one of her favourites, and the one I've wanted to hear her sing for as long as I've been her superfan. Worth the wait? You bet. I can't pretend objectivity when it comes to Cheryl – well, I could, but nobody would believe me – and that's just fine. She's my überdiva and I'm so happy I managed to be in the right place at the right time and catch this performance without flying halfway around the world. Her Salome was the magnetic, mercurial devilchild I knew she'd be – eyes flashing, limbs fluid – and her voice was electrifying yet girlishly silver, right till the bitter and bloody end. There were other laudable aspects of this show – Jacqui Dark's powerhouse Herodias chief among them – but I wasn't there to be balanced, I was there to be bowled over by Cheryl. And I was. I always am.
Peter Grimes All over the place. Oviedo, Tokyo and the Proms. Always with excellent casts and of course always with the same guy in the title role. They've been praised widely elsewhere and naturally by me as well so I won't go over old ground now. But like Parsifal did last year, Peter Grimes has been the opera which loomed largest for me this year – and just like Parsifal, I never tired of it. It killed me every time, whether in concert or fully staged, and I kept discovering new reasons to love it. Imagine it: you're Benjamin Britten, you decide to write your first opera, and that's what you come up with – I'm not sure I'd bother writing another, although I'm certainly glad he did. It's a lucky coincidence – well, mostly a coincidence – that two of my favourite operas happen also to contain roles which The Tenor In My Life sings so exceedingly well. Looks like I'll never be short of opportunities to hear either of them.
There you have it, my personal highlights of the year that's ending – in Florida, at least – in about five and a half hours. As with any list, and especially lists on the internet, there are bound to be shocking omissions. In fact I've already thought of one: Anna Caterina Antonacci's amazing recital at Alice Tully Hall. How could I forget? But this is good: better too many highlights than too few, surely.
Chances are that as you read this, it's already 2013 where you are. So Happy New Year! And good luck with the resolutions. Mine are to see more, hear more and write more...we'll see about that.
Rehearsing in Canberra with conductor Roland Peelman (Photo by Peter Hislop)
Ten days is a long time in opera land. This time last Thursday we were on the open road, en route to The Nation's Capital for Voices in the Forest, an outdoor concert at Canberra's new National Arboretum which also featured Amelia Farrugia and Sumi Jo. We arrived, drove in a circle for a while – on purpose, because Canberra's designed that way – found our hotel, which was straight from Foyle's War, checked in, unpacked and then it was time for some strenuous lounging about on my part and some slightly more strenuous rehearsing for the tenor in my life. No rest for the wicked; they were straight into it and didn't stop till 10pm. Australians, you'll sympathise with our plight, obliged to find somebody serving food in Canberra late on a weeknight. Thank the opera gods for the hotel directly behind ours, who provided not merely food, but pork belly.
Day Two began with a morning rehearsal (I didn't partake) then a late morning phone interview and then a few hours' respite – for respite, read cricket on TV – before rehearsals all evening. It was a long programme, with substantial contributions from all three singers, and a few party pieces making their débuts. So sure enough, another rehearsal the next morning. I can't deny a twinge or three of guilt at my relative sloth; my exertions had more or less been limited to a sun scorched walk to Parliament House. Touristic duty done, surely, but hardly a comparable achievement to Puccini at 10am.
Showtime rolled up soon enough and we set off to the Arboretum, which is tucked away in a deep basin amid many hills and winding roads. The trees are in their early infancy, so the "forest" exists more in one's imagination than actuality, but the setting does lend itself nicely to outdoor performance – it's a natural amphitheatre – and as the festivities had begun early in the afternoon, a crowd of something like 4000 had already arrayed itself against the hill as we pulled up behind the stage.
One hour, several strawberries and two helpful ushers later, we'd negotiated a seat for me and the show swung into action. Marguerite, Musetta, Lauretta and their sisters from Amelia – who even had the kids laughing along with "Mein Herr Marquis" – and some tenor hits from you-know-who, including a lot of things I've never had the chance to hear him sing before. I love Parsifal and Peter Grimes to death, but I can't deny it was a treat to have Cavaradossi's company for a moment, and I don't think you needed to be me to swoon at "Dein ist mein ganzes Herz". Sumi Jo made her grand appearance in the second half and they loved her, too, both in the acrobatics of her solo numbers and a few lighthearted soprano/tenor duets. And if I had to hear "Time To Say Goodbye", this was probably the way to do it.
By 9.30pm it was all over – standing ovation included – and within an hour we were, believe it or not, back in the car and back on the road to Sydney. A 2pm rehearsal for The Queen of Spades in Ultimo meant staying overnight, or even for the post-show buffet, was out of the question. So we drove. Almost into a kangaroo at one point – thank goodness for sharp tenorial reflexes – and deliberately into a handy truckstop for pies and caffeine. We were home by 1am.
Russian immersion followed. In fact it had punctuated the Canberra trip anyway, but now it took over as Sydney Symphony rehearsals got into full swing. I, of course, can claim no active part in all of this hard work; but it seems worth chronicling, and might, I hope, be of interest to opera fans curious for a glimpse at the mechanics behind the magic. So while I was enjoying a week of sunshine, old friends and already knowing how the public transport works in Sydney, our hero was spending his afternoons and evenings in the Sydney Opera House, with Maestro (and pixie) Ashkenazy and a cast of fantastic Russians and Australians, slaving over 290 pages of Cyrillic, phonetic transcription and fabulous Tchaikovsky melancholy.
They were long nights. Rehearsals couldn't begin until late afternoon, so didn't end until late in the evening, and while a late start theoretically should mean a chance to sleep in, empty mornings have a way of filling up fast in this world. Meetings and interviews and so on and so on. Not that we'd complain for a second; there are far worse ways to be frantic. It's been lovely, too, to be in Sydney long enough for once to carry out good intentions of catching up with people – I've seen almost everybody I hoped to, and talked myself out of voice more than once. So much gossip, so little time.
Thursday was the general rehearsal. Friday, a day off, meaning more cricket on TV. And last night, Saturday, it all came together in one big, blazing concert. The Queen of Spades is a large scale opera in almost every respect and I daresay hard enough to pull off in a staged production, let alone in concert. But they did it. Huge kudos to the Sydney Symphony for assembling such a uniformly strong cast, and for balancing Russian imports with homegrown talent. José Carbo, Deborah Humble and Angus Wood were all in fine form, along with several impressive young singers like Amy Corkery, Victoria Lambourn and Tabatha McFadyen.
As for the principal cast, well, it could hardly have been bettered. Irina Tchistjakova was the Countess – imperious, intimidating and with a voice of almost otherworldly depth – and Andrei Bondarenko, young as he is, embodied Yeletsky with similar panache, and melted every heart in the place with his aria. Dina Kuznetsova was all tragic sweetness as Lisa with a silvery voice to match – completely my kind of soprano – and as for Hermann, let's just say it was an auspicious role début. It's a monster of a role but he sailed through as usual, and the warmth of the response from both audience (another standing ovation) and colleagues was unmistakeable.
Which brings us to Sunday. Another day off and – you guessed it – even more cricket. And car racing. On Monday, they do it all again, possibly even better than before. I'll let you know.
The crowd at the National Arboretum (Photo by Peter Hislop)
My reviewing duties for Limelight keep me constantly supplied with recital and aria discs – dream job or what? – but the pitfall is that I've become lazy about keeping up with all the releases which don't come my way. When I worked in music stores it was easy: I ordered the things and opened the boxes, which meant first dibs on almost anything. Now I'm hopeless, and every time I hop over to Presto Classical to check a catalogue number or even a composer (seriously, record labels, please include track information in your digital downloads!) I stumble across a new or recent – or even distressingly non-recent – release about which I had not an inkling, and upon which my future happiness clearly and urgently depends.
Which might have happened with Karina Gauvin's latest bit of brilliance had a kind and clever blog commenter not gently pointed me in its direction. It was mine within minutes. I'm still catching up at glacial pace on Karina's extensive ATMA back catalogue – she's been hearteningly prolific for the last decade or more and I am a Terrible Person for not realising it sooner – but chronological rigour can wait when there's Handel to be had from she who is fast becoming one of my firmest favourites.
I was briefly surprised that she had another Handel CD in her, then remembered that the last two were oratorio and duets respectively. This one is all about the meaty operatic stuff, with lashings of Alcina and a side of Angelica (Ariosto's princess, not the Rugrats supervillain) and even a little Vivaldi and Vinci – the unifying factor, as with so many aria discs lately, is a diva, in this case Anna Maria Strada del Pò, for whom all these nine minute extravaganzas were written. Emilia Marty mightn't have thought much of her but the lady could clearly sing, and if we can't hear her, then I'm more than happy to accept Karina in her place.
In fact I would accept Karina in almost anybody's place. It was her Ginevra on the Alan Curtis Alcina which belatedly alerted me to her exceptional charms; it might have been The Joyce DiDonato Show in many ways, but there's no second fiddling for Karina and the Alcina arias on this album are ample proof – not that it was necessary – that she could have carried the title role with at least as much charisma and frightening skill. Now there's a Curtis Giulio Cesare that's surfaced – I almost missed that one too – which puts Karina in her rightful place as Cleopatra, with the wonderful Marie-Nicole Lemieux as Cesare, and let's just say it's on my Christmas list. In bold and underlined. Pay attention, Santa.
In the meantime, there's this album, and she is as dazzling and delicious as ever. It seems awkward to compare her voice with food, but forgive me: it really is good enough to eat. Her singing is so pristine, so pearly and so lucid, with every coloratura ripple immaculately executed, but beneath the gleam there's a warmth to it too, and so much more colour than simple silver. And remarkably she resists wallowing in her own fabulousness – her "Ah, mio cor", for instance, has a stark, pained edge to it, despite all its myriad opportunities for prolonged vocal basking – and emerges all the lovelier for it.
I babble like a fangirl possessed and yet you'd be surprised – appalled, even – by how few of her recordings I own and how many I have yet to acquire. I have a vague memory of making this same confession last year, which makes my sin all the more reprehensible. My only wispy defence is that the few I do own all provide such sustenance that to pile even more on would be decadent; but that won't hold water. I must do better. Canteloube, Debussy, Purcell, Britten, Poulenc and more, all there for the taking. I'd be a fool to resist.
I read about Anja Harteros all the time – mostly either paeans to her fabulousness on stage, or laments at her fairly frequent cancellations – but it struck me last night that I'd never actually heard her sing, either in person or via recordings. She's respected and adored by many of the operapeople I trust most, so I've never doubted her brilliance, but somehow I've also never got around to investigating the nature of that brilliance. You can get a vague sense of somebody's artistry from reviews and a look at their repertoire, but not much more than that.
So, off to YouTube – the font of all diva knowledge – where the first morsel to tempt me was this very beautiful "O mio babbino caro" in concert.
But I fancied something a bit more intense and theatrical, so my next step was this, "D'Oreste, d'Ajace" from Idomeneo. A slightly oddball production by the looks of it but the manic intensity of her Elettra is gripping and she sings the daylights out of it.
Maybe you think this blog post is going to be an Anja Harteros Gala, and it might have been, had this not caught my eye among the linked videos in the sidebar.
Well, wow. The production is everything Anja's wasn't: hypertraditional, static and let's face it, potentially very very dull...except that Behrens is here to prove that it's the singer, not the staging, who brings a performance to life. She's riveting and terrifying and completely wonderful and it all comes from within: that is one raging inferno of an inner fire. I don't for a minute mean to diminish the marvellous Anja, but this performance edged her out for my Revelation Of The Night.
It also started me thinking about other exciting Mozart sopranos, from which it was a very short leap to – who else? – Carol Vaness. I was hoping for my third scary Elettra of the night, but YouTube didn't seem inclined to oblige, and since I actually own that one on DVD anyway I was happy to be sidetracked by something very different, though still Mozart:
Parsifal and Peter Grimes might have supplanted Don Giovanni at the top of my favourite operas list but I will never ever not love Mozart, and while Così has its longueurs, the above isn't one of them. Neither is this...
...although that might have a little something to do with the supreme adorability of Cecilia Bartoli. I was nine when, fascinated by her incredibly mobile eyebrows, I declared her my favourite and while she might not be quite at the centre of my diva universe any more, I haven't stopped loving her; and I doff my hat completely to her having maintained a top level operatic career on what appear to be almost entirely her terms. No mean feat, that. The sheer joy and love of music which radiates from her is, to me, irresistible – especially when she goes and does something like this:
[moment of silence]
Where to from there? Oh, I know. MIRELLA.
MORE MIRELLA.
Thus it might easily have continued for hours (or all eternity) but you have to stop somewhere, I suppose, and this where I stopped last night. The only name I searched all night was Anja's; every other video was just a recommendation thrown up by the previous one. Interwebz, you are a grand and glorious thing.
And so, as it turns out, is the woman who started the evening's adventures, so let's finish more or less where we started, with Anja Harteros being glorious.
We don't own a car, because when you're away from home ten months of the year, it's really not worth it. So we rent one every time we're in town, which drastically reduces chances of emotional attachment – not to mention chances of an Aston Martin/Jaguar/Chevrolet Bel Air – but comes with several perks, one of which is Sirius radio. Yes, there it is, the operatic segue; two sentences about cars is already beyond my capacity, more would be foolhardy.
I should be honest, though. Opera isn't the only reason I love Sirius. 40s on 4, 50s on 5, Bluegrass Junction, Radio Classics, Siriusly Sinatra: these stations are also among those we usually have programmed in by the time we've exited the MCO carpark. But it sure is nice to have Met Opera on 74. In an ideal world, there would be another, more general opera station too – maybe one with live broadcasts from companies around the globe – but All Opera, All The Time is fine by me in any form.
The Met broadcasts themselves are fabulous, of course, particularly the archival ones. There's nothing like stumbling upon the entire last act of Parsifal on the way home from our local BBQ restaurant and sitting in the garage for twenty minutes because turning off Jerome Hines's Gurnemanz is unthinkable. I have a soft spot, though, for the bits and pieces they play in between: single arias, art songs and various other vocal selections. I love the variety and the surprises, and to a certain extent, I love playing Name That Artist.
If only they'd ever give you the answer. Sometimes I'm delighted by a familiar voice, sometimes I eventually work it out, sometimes I make an educated guess and sometimes I'm completely clueless; but as far as I can tell, there's no way to confirm it one way or the other. Nobody back-announces, and the online schedule lists only the composer and the title of the work. Come on, people. You must know your audience is full of people who care deeply whose voice they're hearing – and that singers deserve credit. Or maybe I'm just missing the magic button which would reveal all of these answers immediately unto me. Do let me know if that's so.
Tonight, at least, when we tuned in and heard Rossini, I did know the voice immediately and needed no confirmation. Jennifer Larmore! Pretty unmistakeable, particularly in Rossini. It's been a while – too long – since I've heard her, and it was a thrill to hear her jetting her way effortlessly through all those millions of notes. It was a reminder, too, that I have quite a few of Jennifer's CDs sitting around semi-neglected.
Not a comment on Jennifer, of course, but rather on how lamentably little time I spend listening to most of my opera collection these days. Frankly, I'm still adjusting to the fact that I have so many CDs at my fingertips again – they spent so long in storage that I kind of got used to life without them. Several times lately, I've found myself trawling Google for recording information, or YouTube for audio clips, only to realise belatedly that I could just walk into the next room and grab my own physical copy.
So I don't blog enough and don't listen to enough of my own music collection. I can't help thinking there's a Blog Challenge lurking in there somewhere, but while I think about that, here's a little bit of Jennifer.
Japan was an adventure and a half. My experience of Asia until now had been limited to a few days in Hong Kong and a slightly challenging week in Taichung, neither of which has much to do with the immersion of six weeks in Tokyo. I had almost no idea what to expect. I mean, every new city is a surprise, but I've spent enough time lurking about European cities (and, let's face it, watching them on TV) to have a vague idea of what to anticipate from, say, Oviedo or Dresden or, should fate ever take me there, Munich or Milan. But Tokyo? Pretty much the only thing I was certain of was that I really, really needed to learn (finally) to use chopsticks.
Reader, I learnt, and Tokyo won me over. Six weeks attached to an opera – even one you're not in – isn't the same as a six week holiday or tourist experience, and there are still vaste swathes of the city I never made it to. That would be true of almost anywhere, but you feel it more intensely in a city as unfathomably huge as Tokyo. I've never seen so many city centres in my life: every metropolitan train station seems to spit you out into yet another gleaming shopping district, the likes of which you'd find only once or twice in other major cities. And maybe I'm a city girl, even more than I thought, but I loved that. The endless supply of department stores, the blinding glitz of the pachinko arcades, menu after incomprehensible pictorial menu. There was plenty my brain couldn't process, but it didn't matter: there was something about this infinite metropolis I couldn't help but love.
The people helped. Outside of the theatre, we almost never had a common language, but the people I met were friendly, welcoming and helpful to a fault. I never felt self conscious or out of place and whether our conversations took place in broken English, barely existent Japanese (I arrived with two words and left with maybe five) or a language wholly composed of gestures and smiles, they were unfailingly patient with me and we almost always got where we needed to go eventually. Yes, it was a challenge discovering how few menus – at least in Shinjuku, where we were based – had English translations, but almost every restaurant provides visual aids, and besides: the range of ready made food at our local (24 hour!) supermarket left Tesco in the dust for both deliciousness and value for money.
Our six weeks weren't entirely (if you'll forgive the Grimes pun) plain sailing. The fact that I don't eat fish or seafood was as inconvenient as you might imagine in the home of sushi and sashimi, and we never did find a way to make taxi drivers understand where we were staying, so thank goodness the Hilton was near our building: everybody understands Hilton. But for me the occasional bumps and the odd privation – I did miss Craig Ferguson and Mexican food – disappeared in the midst of such a fascinating and delightful place.
And oh, the adventures. The Autumn Festival we stumbled upon quite literally around the corner from our hotel, complete with street processions and night markets. The exquisitely arrayed department stores and their overwhelming food halls, where your eyes take in so much that you forget you haven't actually bought or eaten anything. The Yamaha Centre in Ginza, with its floor after floor of musical instruments, sheet music, classical CDs and anything else a musician or music lover could want – including a whole section of adorable stationery for music teachers. Toy shopping at Kiddyland in Harajuku, which has an entire floor just for Snoopy and his friends. The serene peace and natural beauty of the Meiji shrine. The mysterious expanse of the Imperial Palace, or at least of what little one can see beyond the moat and the high walls. And remind me, if I ever have the chance to go there again, to learn the Japanese for "where did you get those ridiculously cute shoes?" because believe me, it would have been dangerously useful.
I've already written glowingly about the theatre itself: its gracious announcements, spacious lobbies and intermission profiteroles. Backstage was also delightful if only in its simplicity. No labyrinths or hard-to-find doors, no gauntlet of stern security to run, and a host of lovely theatre staff always ready to help me if I managed just the same to get lost.
Stage door was even better. Some countries have a stage door culture and some don't, but I've never experienced anything quite like Tokyo. There were fans there waiting even as we arrived, two hours before the show, and fans afterwards even when we'd been to an hour-long reception in between. They clamour for autographs and take photos, and their supply of CD booklets and long forgotten concert programmes is amazing – and it doesn't matter if you're the title role or a relatively minor player, if you're in the show, they care about you. Hey, a few of them even took photos of me, which has never happened anywhere else – and then came back after subsequent shows to give us copies of those photos, which was a lovely surprise.
I took hundreds of photos – big surprise – and could have taken hundreds more. I've posted a few below. They're not particularly great photos, just iPhone snapshots, but it really wouldn't feel right to write about Tokyo without giving you at least a tiny glimpse of its myriad colours. It was a sensory overload, this city; surprising, overwhelming, sometimes deeply confusing but I can't deny it – I was hooked.
Amusement arcade
Shopping in Ginza.
Barrels of sake at the Meiji shrine.
Shibuya
Opera Palace
Oh, one final thought: all opera houses should have a shopping centre, restaurants and a train station attached to them. Too brilliantly convenient for words.
I'm starting to wonder whether all the world's opera companies shouldn't start shiftily cribbing from Tokyo's New National Theatre when it comes to the running of their theatres. This is a place where the usual pre-show announcements about mobile phones and recording devices are followed by the very courteous suggestion that you refrain from leaning forward, as "this may obstruct the view of those behind you" – a warning I've wished for several times and never before heard.
The audiences are attentive and mostly inclined to stifle their coughs – or save them for fortissimo passages – and their reward, come intermission, is a selection of beautifully prepared sushi (not my cup of tea, but it looked excellent) and pastries. Profiteroles between the acts? Don't mind if I do. There were also opera glasses for rent or hire and even a selection of production photos, taken during the final dress rehearsal and printed up in time for Tokyo's avid autograph collectors to buy on opening night and bring back to stage door after the show.
The mini Britten photo exhibition was also a nice touch, as was having the restaurant's display menu signed by all the cast members. The foyer is spacious, the queues for drinks and facilities were manageable – despite what looked like a full house – and as for the theatre itself, well, I'd like to bottle that acoustic and take it with me everywhere.
But perhaps I should stop talking about the venue and say a word or fifty for the show, which, as you may or may not have picked, was Peter Grimes again, this time in Tokyo and in a production by Willy Decker. He of the infamous red-dress Traviata, which I happen to like a lot but is, I realise, not everybody's favourite. Maybe the same is true of this Grimes but on that I could scarcely comment, having, in the course of the final dress rehearsal, fallen quite shatteringly in love with it. It promptly broke my heart of course, but then I'd expect nothing less from a Grimes.
Decker has taken what should be a series of alienating tactics – a great abstract block of a set, an unrelentingly bleak colour and lighting scheme, and stylised direction which favours symbolism over realism at almost every opportunity – and moulded them into something which cuts so swiftly to the quick that it's not alienating at all. Horrifying, yes. Moving, absolutely. Not realistic and yet brutally real.
A chorus who move like a shoal of fish, hymn sheets brandished like moral manifestos; Ellen repeatedly placed on the wrong side of the curtain and scowled into conformity; Grimes forced to bear the coffin of his first apprentice throughout the Prologue; the boy's sodden jersey thrown callously from villager to laughing villager, as if we hadn't already felt the hypocrisy of Sedley's "Little care you for the 'prentice or his welfare." These are broad strokes, but they're carefully chosen and devastating in their impact, and if occasionally a touch of local colour or a comic aside is subsumed in the blackened heart of the whole, it's a small price to pay. The staging of the last moments of the opera, in which we see Ellen finally give way to Borough pressure and, spirit crushed, return to the oppressive fold, is a piece of cruel genius.
Is that enough of a love letter? I have a history of falling for Grimes productions – Neil Armfield's will never release its hold on me – and now I have another to tug at me. Our luxury cast hardly hurt either. Jonathan Summer as Balstrode, thirty years after singing the role on Sir Colin Davis's Grammy-winning recording and still a sensational interpreter of it, vocally and dramatically. Susan Gritton, our lovely Ellen Orford in Australia three years ago, continues to give gorgeous and ever more incisive voice to that role. And the tenor in my life, you know the one, is turning into his own arch-rival, insofar as every performance threatens to unseat all those preceding it – and if you've seen any of those, you know that that ought not to be possible.
Not to mention a thoroughly committed supporting cast, many of them Japanese and making what I expect are probably role débuts: this, after all, is the first British opera presented by this company. The chorus, too, deserve heaping praise. Grimes is no picnic even for an anglophone chorus, let alone those working in a foreign language, but this chorus needs no allowances made: they nail it, plain and simple. So too the Tokyo Philharmonic, under the loving and passionate care of Sir Richard Armstrong. For once the Sea Interludes aren't staged, and sure enough, this orchestra injects so much drama and so much scenic life, that staging would be superfluous anyway.
You've surely noticed by now that I am too diplomatic – or, more likely, too much of a wimp – to offer anything but positive thoughts about productions in which my tenor is involved. But maybe you've also read between the lines of that diplomacy from time to time: even a relative Pollyanna like me can't love everything, all of the time. No such evasion or glossing over in the above. It truly was wonderful and I truly did love it. And just when I thought Peter Grimes might have to give way to Parsifal as my very favourite opera, along came this one to throw me well and truly into disarray again. There are worse ways to be, I daresay.
Reviewing the Angela Brazil titles in my Kindle (don't laugh, they're highly entertaining and completely free) I was reminded that I intended, many months ago, to blog a little something about Edmund Crispin (born Bruce Montgomery, but who am I to rob a man of his nom de plume?) and in particular his novel Swan Song. Just as that potted bio over to your left says, I'm a fan of fictional detectives, but I was lamentably late to discover Crispin and his joyously nutty professor, Gervase Fen. In truth I only found them by judging a book by its cover – or to be more precise, its spine. I was in the Waterstone's just up from the Coliseum, meandering through the crime section, and something about those Crispin signs said: Read Me.
And when I found that the author "listed his recreations as swimming, excessive smoking, Shakespeare, the operas of Wagner and Strauss, idleness and cats" and that "his antipathies were dogs, the French Film, the Renaissance of the British Film, psychoanalysis, the psychological-realistic crime story, and the contemporary theatre" I knew I was on the right track. Wagner, Strauss and cats? This was a man after my own heart.
He was also an Oxford organ scholar and a composer, and sure enough, there's a pleasingly musical vein running through his books. One features a murderer who's found out through Fen's detailed knowledge of Ein Heldenleben, another sees a spate of cathedral organists meeting with foul play, and then there's Swan Song: all about the murder of a particularly unpleasant Hans Sachs during the first post-war performance in Englad of Die Meistersinger. What's not to love about such a premise? (Yes, from the title, I was expecting Lohengrin or Parsifal, but one can't have everything I suppose.)
It's an excellent and enjoyable whodunnit with all the requisite twists and apparent impossibilities, and well worth reading on that basis alone, but of course what I really loved were all the sly digs, inside jokes and hilariously plausible rehearsal dramas. I couldn't help wondering if the singers in Crispin's novel might have been inspired by some of those he knew in his musical capacities. Not that I suppose anybody would be clamouring to claim a description like this for themselves:
"His habits suggested, in fact, a belated attempt to revive the droit de seigneur, and his resemblance to the gross and elderly roué of Strauss's [Der Rosenkavalier] was sufficiently remarkable for it to be a subject of perpetual surprise in operatic circles that his interpretation of the role was so inadequate."
Nice. Not to mention the novel's opening paragraph:
"There are few creatures more stupid than the average singer. It would appear that the fractional adjustment of larynx, glottis, and sinuses required in the production of beautiful sounds must almost invariably be accompanied – so perverse are the habits of Providence – by the witlessness of a barnyard fowl."
And so on and so forth, but for all the swipes he takes at them, singers on the whole emerge quite charmingly from the story – the reprehensible victim excepted – and in fact the hero (or is he?) is himself a rising star heldentenor. Whose other half happens to be a twenty-something year old writer. Now why does that ring a bell?
Wagner himself is also quite roundly defended by Crispin, who was obviously irked by those who viewed him as a de facto Nazi and accordingly banned his work. Adam, the aforementioned tenor, gives a little speech on the subject early on:
"It's a highbrow axiom...that Wagner was responsible for the rise of Nazism. If you want to be in the fashion you must refer darkly to the evil workings of the Ring in the Teutonic mentality – though as the whole cycle of operas is devoted to showing that even the gods can't break an agreement without bringing the whole universe crashing about their ears, I've never been able to see what possible encouragement Hitler can have got out of it..."
Perhaps not a massively popular opinion in 1947.
As the whodunnit heats up, the operatic stuff fades away a bit, but still: it's a 1940s murder mystery about opera singers and therefore pretty much my ideal book. If Harriet Vane and Lord Peter Wimsey could have been interpolated – it is set in Oxford, after all – I'd never need to read another novel ever again. Several of my favourite mystery novelists have incorporated opera into their books – Gladys Mitchell in Death at the Opera, Ngaio Marsh in Photo Finish – but I think Swan Song probably does the funniest and most thorough job of it. For once I half resented the intrusion of the murder: I would have been quite happy just to watch the Meistersinger rehearsals unfold in all their very recognisable chaos.
Taking off with a tenor was the best decision I ever made – no question about that – but it did mean giving up constant access to the many and varied Sydney performances by my One True Diva. Now my fixes are few and far between, though all the more glorious for their rarity, and I've had to learn to be brave when I simply cannot be where she is, no matter how much I might wish I were. It's a small price to pay, of course, for the life which has opened up before me, but all the same, I miss her.
So you'd be forgiven for wondering if I'd had a word in the ear of whoever does the programming for the Sydney Philharmonia Choirs; and believe me, if I'd known a) who that was and b) how to sway their decisions, I wouldn't have ruled such skulduggery out either. But I did no such thing. It was, I swear, entirely their idea to include in their 2013 an opera gala celebrating the year's three big birthday boys – Wagner, Verdi and Britten – and to engage one Cheryl Barker and one Stuart Skelton as their soloists.
Yes, as I tweeted within seconds of the Phil's own public announcement, all my Christmases are coming at once, and they're coming on the 8th and 9th of June. I'm so pleased, I'm even forgiving them for drastically reducing our turnaround time between Australia, where we will already have been for the previous six years two months for Ring rehearsals, and our next destination. What care I, with such a glorious confluence of Favourite Singers?
The Philharmonia have only announced a few bits of repertoire, and believe it or not, I don't know much more than that. What snippets they have confirmed are enough to feast on for now though: the Act I love duet and the Willow Song from Otello, "Now the Great Bear and Pleiades..." and Ellen's Embroidery Aria from Peter Grimes and the Pilgrims' Chorus from Tannhäuser. The mind boggles at the possibilities for the rest of the concert. My personal vote would be for as much of Act III, scene i of Lohengrin as can sensibly be squeezed in – and maybe for Korngold's birthyear to be moved so that the inclusion of "Glück das mir verblieb" could be justified – but again, I still have no idea who one bribes in these matters.
Honestly, though, whatever they program will make me happy: there's really not a single element of this concert which doesn't fill me with glee. I've known about these concerts for a little while but I still can't quite believe my luck. Let's hope I haven't jinxed them by saying so. I'll start stockpiling the Vitamin C now.
Tomorrow our next adventure begins, and I have a feeling this might be one of our biggest yet: we're off to Tokyo, where the New National Theatre will present Willy Decker's production of Peter Grimes, recently seen at the Royal Opera. It's going to be a whole new world for me; we've travelled plenty in Europe, Australasia and the U.S., but my experiences with Asia are much more limited, and I've never been to Japan. We're doing the thing properly, too: a six week stay, right in the heart of Tokyo. I genuinely have no idea what to expect; I'm a little nervous, but mostly intrigued and excited.
The Grimes itself is a pretty fabulous prospect too. Not only do we have the guy recently described in the London press as the "greatest Grimes alive", we also have Susan Gritton, with whom I have been in love ever since she sang Ellen Orford in Sydney three years ago. And a recent cast change has thrown up yet another bonus for me: Australian baritone Jonathan Summers as Balstrode. I'll always remember the season of Otello in Sydney in which Jonathan Summers (again substituting at short notice, this time for Peter Coleman-Wright) sang Iago. Seven times I went, and seven times his Credo made me forget I was there for the Desdemona. I've been spoilt for Balstrodes: Peter CW in 2009, Iain Paterson just a week ago, and now Jonathan. Lucky me.
As I say, I know almost nothing about Tokyo beyond what I've picked up while skimming through my Lonely Planet Guide. So if you've any tips to share, be they practical or touristical, please feel free to share them.
The banner of this blog says "adventures in and out of opera" but I don't often live up to the second half of that. So in honour of tonight's blue moon, here's one of my favourite out-of-opera people singing a song I just love.
I shall leave most of the raving and effusing to the slightly more objective press, but it has to be said that the Peter Grimes Prom on Friday was, well, huge. In every way. The semi staging (by Donna Stirrup, based on David Alden's 2009 ENO production) was incredibly effective, as were the black and white costumes (trivia: Peter Grimes supplied his own jersey) and the carefully selected props. If anything the action was intensified by the restrictions of a concert performance, and what movement there was stood out even more boldly. (More trivia: Grimes's dive after the rope was wholly spontaneous, and probably caused minor cardiac arrest in an occupational health and safety warden somewhere.)
The dream cast did their sensational thing. I'd seen a lot of them in Oviedo earlier this year and all– Leigh Melrose, Gillian Ramm, Michael Colvin, Rebecca de Pont Davies, Darren Jeffery – remained in fabulous form. Those I'd not seen were uniformly excellent. I want to make particularly special mention of three of them: Amanda Roocroft, for breaking my little heart; Felicity Palmer for the curdled hilarity (and still powerful voice) of her Mrs Sedley; and most of all Iain Paterson, whose role début as Balstrode found him in ridiculously good voice. He was a wonderful Amfortas at the ENO last year, but he's somehow even better now, and it made my week to hear him blitz this great role so completely. But you know, it's such an ensemble piece that I need to namecheck everyone. Mairead Buicke, Mark Richardson, Stuart Kale, the amazing ENO chorus and orchestra, and to the man in charge of them all, the masterful Ed Gardner. Massive kudos to all of you.
As for Grimes himself, what can I say? The comments I made before I'd even met the man are partisan enough; now that I've lost all objectivity and used up most of my adjectives, all I'll say is that he's a wonder in this role. How he does it, I still don't know; you could meet him backstage half an hour beforehand and still not quite see the hurricane coming. For the gory (glorious) detail, see the review links below. As for me, I was bursting with pride.
And then this happened...
It was even louder in person of course, especially when the folks in the arena started stomping. If you were there on Friday, or in London or Sydney in 2009, then I know you'll understand the response.
This wasn't my first Prom, but it was only my second, and it was certainly my first introduction to the full Proms experience: I took my increasingly famous pig down to the arena queue, and met for the first time a lot of people I'd previously known only via Twitter. It seemed like everybody was there: it actually took until the night before the show to find a home for the spare ticket I had, because everyone I could think to take was already going. The pig went and prommed in the arena, even meeting Henry Wood himself, and I sat up in the stalls being awestruck. Peter Grimes is possibly my favourite opera of all and I couldn't have asked for better circumstances in which to hear it.
The BBC radio broadcast of the concert is still available online until the end of the month. If your heart's up to it, have a listen.
Dull as it may be, perhaps I should start with a sort of disclaimer. For the first time, I'm attempting to write honestly about an Opera Australia season which includes my own Significant Other, and as ever, I'm cautious – probably excessively so – about what I should or shouldn't say. I don't want to come across like a Pollyanna or a mouthpiece, but nor do I think it would be right for me to whinge and moan, even if I wanted to do. It's a weird balance to strike, and I fear I still haven't entirely figured it out, which frankly is one of the reasons why I don't blog as much as I used to. I'm trying to think of ways to fix this; in the meantime, just let me say outright that the opinions I express here are still mine and mine alone. Informed, no doubt, by a certain personal bias; but then that's hardly new.
Anyway. Opera Australia have announced their 2013 season, and while it's not a bad one, all in all, I can't help wishing – in a masochistic sort of way – that the company were doing even more to make me seethe with jealousy. It might break my heart to miss a new production of Les Dialogues des Carmélites, or a Lorina Gore Zerbinetta, or a six-opera Britten Festival, but it would also make me glad that my adopted home opera company was busy being so exciting. None of those are happening, alas; at least, not in 2013. It's a season very heavy with Italian opera – particularly Verdi, who, like Wagner, celebrates his bicentenary next year – and mostly free from oddities, rarities and modernities.
None of which is intended to condemn. Opera is still opera, and spectacularly subjective, and let's face it: if I were living in Sydney next year, I'd probably still go and see pretty much every show anyway, lack of heart palpitations notwithstanding. Maybe I'd give Bohème a miss, but that's not Opera Australia's fault. But I expect it's a season which will elicit widely disparate reactions among subscribers and regular attendees, because it's an all or nothing season in a way: if you love grand Italian opera and managed to nab Ring tickets, then 2013 will be heaven. If you don't, and didn't, then the pickings are a little slim.
Repertoire aside, what strikes me about this season is the names on (and off) the roster. The core of regular singers (whether ensemble members or, as I believe many have recently become, freelance artists) has changed over the last few years. Some singers are getting more work than ever with OA, some markedly less, and a few names seem surprisingly to have disappeared altogether. I don't have much more insight than anyone else into the reasons for this; I just hope that those reasons are good ones. There will always be more singers in Australia than there is available work, but the company – and the country – have a proud tradition of fostering fantastic local talent, and I hope that even those whose names seem to have slipped off the radar for now have not been lost to us for good.
I've just said that I don't want to be a Pollyanna, but now I'm going to contradict myself completely by playing a short round of the Glad Game. Maybe this isn't my Dream Season but there's still some fodder for envy. I'm devastated, for instance, to be missing the new production of Tosca with Cheryl Barker in the title role. Above anything else in 2013 line-up, that's the show I wish I could fly over for, and the return of John Wegner as Scarpia just makes it all the more tempting. If only Seattle were closer to Sydney. Also seriously appealing is Rachelle Durkin's star turn as Norina in Don Pasquale. Not an opera I'm wildly keen on – I always find it just a little too cruel – but Rachelle + bel canto + comedy = unmissable, in my book. And I have a feeling Warwick Fyfe's début as Falstaff could be one of the year's cleverest pieces of casting. The La Fura dels Baus production of Ballo in Maschera is also a very intriguing prospect, and certainly a canny move by OA in terms of its international standing.
I won't, alas, be in the right city – or even the right country – to see any of the above. I will be in town for the Melbourne Ring, of course; but ticket sales have gone so incredibly well that the policy on complimentary tickets is tighter than ever: artists and their partners will receive tickets to the final dress rehearsal of each opera, but not to the shows themselves. Happily, some who knew about this policy in plenty of time were able to apply for full price tickets in the normal manner, but this didn't pan out for us. So I shall just have to get my Wagner fix in those dress rehearsals, and rely on vicarious thrills when it comes to the actual performances. Disappointing, I agree, but such is life; and it's hard to truly begrudge the Melbourne Ring for selling out.
There you have it, then. My take – or parts thereof – on a season in which I still feel strangely invested, despite the likelihood that I will see very little, if any, of its offerings. I still hope, for everyone's sake, that it's a well-attended and well-received season, and that it might set the company up for a 2014 season which really will turn me green, and maybe even require a few flights to and fro. I'd also very much like to hear from you – yes, you – about your feelings on this season: the highlights, the lowlights, the surprises both pleasant and un. Go on: make me jealous.
The Grand Teton Music Festival was a fantastic and all too brief experience, and, as you might have guessed from the photo above, the music was not the only attraction. Jackson Hole is an extraordinary (and ridiculously photogenic) part of the world. We were fortunate enough to have two whole days to play with before rehearsals started, so we spent a good deal of them exploring the Grand Teton National Park. The scenery just never stops and it's impossible to resist snapping a photo every two or three seconds – all the while knowing you'll never do the place justice. The wildlife was pretty nifty too; we didn't spot any bears, alas, but we did see several moose (a couple at remarkably close range) and a whole herd of buffalo.
The music in question was pretty thrilling too of course. Donald Runnicles conducted Beethoven 8 and then a selection of excerpts from Die Walküre, featuring my tenor as Siegmund, Heidi Melton as Sieglinde and Brünnhilde, and Donnie Ray Albert as Wotan. So we basically had all of Act I minus the Hunding bits; Brünnhilde Hojotoho-ing; and Wotan's farewell. Not a bad way to hear Walküre, actually, if that's not a heretical thing to say. Although I did miss the Todesverkündigung.
Walk Festival Hall, where the concerts took place, is quite a special place to hear Wagner: it's very small (685 seats) and quite intimate, with the first row of seating at the same level as the stage and subsequent rows quite steeply raked. So not only do you hear everything clearly, you can see everything (and everybody) as well; a fascinating contrast to my last Walküre, in the dark, cavernous depths of the Met. Wagner is vast and magical enough to envelope you in almost any acoustic, but in a small space like this, it was especially intense. Nor did it hurt to have a master such as Runnicles on the podium, or the fabulous forces of the Grand Teton Festival Orchestra (most of them on summer break from other excellent American orchestras), or three such thrilling soloists.
We'd gladly have stayed longer than the week allotted. But the symphony orchestras of Australia were calling – so at 6am on the morning after the second concert, not yet having slept, we were off to Jackson Hole Airport, whence we flew home to Orlando for all of twenty-four hours before heading to Tasmania. I hope we have a chance to return to Jackson Hole one day. Mountains, moose and wonderful music: what more could a person want?
I do want to write about our visit to the Grand Teton Music Festival – which was amazing – but as I'm about to take a fifteen (fifteen) hour flight to Australia, it might have to wait a day or two. In the meantime, here's a quick plug for a podcast Stuart recorded with Ed Seckerson, talking opera, rugby and of course, Rock Pig. Enjoy!
When I heard the New York Philharmonic play Bluebeard's Castle last year, it was my first live Bluebeard and also the first time I'd heard or seen Michelle DeYoung, although of course I knew her by name and illustrious reputation. That concert was a revelation on all fronts (not least for the tenor in my life, who'd never heard the opera in any form until that evening) and we immediately booked to see it again a couple of nights later. It was also that evening that we decided Bartok should be reanimated and compelled to write a companion piece for mezzo and, well, heldentenor of course. Still waiting on the technology for that one.
Wwe only had to wait a year and a bit for another hit (or three) of Bluebeard, however, this time in semi-staged concert performances with the San Francisco Symphony. In the meantime I've heard Michelle in three countries and four cities – sometimes with my tenor and sometimes without – and she's become not only one of my favourite singers in the world, but also somebody I'm fortunate to count as a friend. Which might make me biased, except that she's so objectively fantastic that it hardly matters: you really don't need to be biased to be a fan of Michelle.
The trip to San Francisco was a plan hatched many months ago. Three Bluebeards in three days, with Michelle and the wonderful Alan Held – Wozzeck to Stuart's Drum Major in his Met début last year – and MTT himself at the helm? We were powerless to resist. Life was made even easier when a recording session (at Capitol Records no less!) took Stuart to Los Angeles at just the right moment to facilitate a quick jaunt north. Although not as quick as it should have been – thanks to an impressive seven hours of delays, we missed the first half of the concert (Liszt's Piano Concerto No. 1) but did make it, unbelievably, in time for Bluebeard.
It was worth the tense taxi ride and the super quick change at the hotel. Obviously. I'd half forgotten just how magnificently creepy this opera is. The New York Phil performances were a blazing sensory assault. The SFS and MTT burnt a little slower but no less intensely, and raised more goosebumps than ever. I dearly wish that I had one of those Men In Black mind wiping devices so that I could forget about Door Five in between times; but even anticipation can't extinguish the visceral thrill of a concert hall suddenly lit up and an electrifying Michelle DeYoung High C.
And while I may occasionally have hashtagged to the contrary, it isn't all about Door Five either: there's so much to love and be spooked by, from the torture chamber to the garden to that room full of [SPOILER ALERT] undead wives. I particularly love the pool of tears too. And all the blood. The armory became a new favourite during these concerts, partly because it started to remind me of the final scene of Vec Makropulos, which is up there with Door Five among my favourite operatic moments. It's all so good. I can't help thinking that for a certain kind of newcomer, this could be an ideal first opera: it really does have all the makings of a potent gateway drug.
Everything I wrote about Michelle's Judith last year still applies. Her transformation from nervous newlywed into a sensual She Who Must Be Obeyed was extraordinary. Judith might have entered several cautious steps behind her dark horse Duke but by the end of the night she was circling him like a shark. You'd give in too. In fact her singing alone would be ample persuasion. She easily encompasses all the role's crazy extremes; Door Five is amazing, clearly, but then so too are her gossamer pianissimi, emerging as if from nowhere and then blooming before us. My words are a pale substitute, but you get the point. She's awesome.
Also excellent was Alan Held as Bluebeard himself, dark and dangerous but with a dash here and there of humanity. He didn't just lurk in corners looking like a murderer. You could believe in his reluctance to show Judith his bloodstained secrets, and in his anguish at her increasingly inevitable fate. But you could also believe in his violent voice, particularly as embodied in such a compelling voice. Like Michelle, he manages to combine full-on power with genuine beauty of tone, which always makes for the best sort of villain. They were an inspired pairing.
These performances were semi-staged on a raised platform at the rear of the stage, and framed by video projections – some literal, some abstract. I was particularly fond of the bloodstained roses and the wispy shadows of former wives; the moment when Judith joined them also made very clever use of the choir stalls. Placing singers behind the orchestra is always a daring move – particularly with a score that gets as loud as this one does – but in fact the balance was remarkably good, at least as far as I was concerned. I was also happy at last to see the famous Michael Tilson Thomas in action, and to hear Jeremy Denk, a long time blogging idol of mine, in the eclectic Liszt concerto. Basically it was an all star line up.
It was a bit of a whirlwind trip, with three concerts in three days and several sets of San Francisco friends to see – not to mention the airport drama, which naturally spread to include our return trip as well. But a whirlwind full of such great artists and friends, and with a Bluebeard's Castle at the centre of it, is absolutely fine by me.
One of the many, many things I love about the United States is the existence of Classic Arts Showcase. When all other television is a wasteland – and it happens with disturbing frequency – CAS is always there to rescue me, with its constant supply of fine arts video clips. It's like YouTube without the need to make decisions and without my own personal bias, showing me wonderful stuff I might never have found, or thought to watch, on my own. And all with the stated mission of encouraging viewers eventually to turn off their TVs, go out, and experience these art forms in the flesh.
Classic Arts Showcase has become a bit of a standby in our household when we're back in the U.S., and particularly on those nights when jetlag has us awake at stupid hours, in need of entertainment. And one night last week, it gave us this lovely woman: American contralto Eula Beal. Maybe you've heard of her; I certainly hadn't. Her career was fairly shortlived and localised – though she did manage to sing "Kindertotenlieder" in its LA Phil premiere – and might well have left no recorded legacy, had it not been for the film Concert Magic, from which CAS's two excerpts were drawn. I can't seem to find either of them on YouTube, but there are others, so allow me to share a couple.
"Erbarme dich" (in English) with Yehudi Menuhin playing the violin, and Antal Dorati conducting the Symphony Orchestra of Hollywood.
Schubert's "Erlkönig", accompanied by Marguerite Campbell.
Is it too late now to be writing about the ENO Flying Dutchman? I expect the sensible answer is yes. But self-indulgence is not exactly an alien concept on this blog – and I have some lack-of-blogging guilt to assuage into the bargain – so perhaps I'll say a few words just the same.
As with the ENO Parsifal last year, this was my first proper encounter with this opera in any language, and I have to say, it is a fairly insane privilege to be able to get acquainted with a work by watching – and hearing – it take shape in the theatre, first in rehearsals and then during the season. With Parsifal this turned out to be formative: somewhere along the line, it became my favourite Wagner opera and in fact one of my favourites full stop, which, given its preponderance of 1. boy singers and 2. orchestral passages was a bit of a surprise to this soprano fanatic. I saw it something like 15 times last year, which should be enough for a while, and yet I keep suddenly craving it. The Zürich Opera production, which I've already seen through its premier season and one revival, goes back there again next year and I'm already excited.
But I digress. Dutchman is not Parsifal. Nor could one expect it to be, although I confess to wishing more than once that it was. It's all very rollicking and I learnt to love it on its merits but, well, I'm glad it was Wagner's first important work and not his last. Every now and then, there's a passage which foreshadows all the intoxicating glory to come – a tantalising little pre-echo – but there are also plenty of chunks which could pass for Rossini or Meyerbeer or rum-ti-tum Verdi. None of which I dislike, by the way, but it's hard not to judge Wagner by what you know he was ultimately capable of. Still, this all sounds like so much griping and I don't really mean for it to. It's a nice tightly packed little opera with some fabulous music, a few longueurs, and a weirdly unloveable yet still mostly compelling set of characters.
I eagerly await some director's Twilight-inspired take on this opera, because that's what Senta's obsession – especially as portrayed in this director's (Jonathan Kent's, that is) modern production – with the tousled supernatural heartthrob kept putting me in mind of. At least he didn't sparkle. But he did, alas, exist only in her imagination. She saw him; nobody else did. When her father introduced them, it would appear he was fixing her up with somebody far more earthbound and less gallant: a long haired fellow whose Regency attire (unlike the Dutchman's) was only fancy dress and who, in one of the production's more traumatic scenes, raped poor bewildered Senta, precipitating a meltdown of Carrie-like proportions.
The staging divided opinion, including my own. I didn't love every part of it, but was certainly far more convinced by the end of the season than I had been when I first saw a rehearsal. I can understand those who didn't like it – or didn't like all of it – but for me, it certainly had its moments. It also had a fearless central performance by Orla Boylan as Senta, who made me cry every single night – which, despite my emotional fangirl approach to the artform, is not nearly as frequent an occurence as you might think. James Creswell was all doom and dignity as the Dutchman, Robert Murray and Susanna Tudor-Thomas excellent as the Steersman and Mary, and my own tenor was more or less a revelation as Erik. To me, I mean. He's sung the role about a million times but I'd never heard him (or anyone else) do it. And oh my, that is some high and unforgiving vocal writing. Which he nailed. Of course. The audience and reviewers went kind of crazy for him – not necessarily standard practice for an Erik – and I was not about to argue with them.
Ed Gardner was brilliant in his first Wagner opera, the ENO Orchestra played sensationally, the chorus were fabulous and had far too much fun in the raucous pirate party. I'm sorry I always relegate them to the final paragraph and make them sound like an afterthought, because believe me, they're not. The ENO chorus is one of the best I've run into yet, both musically and as a troupe of actors, and that orchestra really is amazing. I heard them play Butterfly and Caligula too – both wildly different from Dutchman – and it's clear that nothing fazes them. I can't wait finally to hear them, again with Ed Gardner at the helm, play Peter Grimes at the Proms this August.
Who knows when I'll hear another Dutchman. Chances are, if and when I do, it will be with a different Erik; Stuart had already theoretically retired the role from his repertoire before the ENO came calling for his last minute assistance. And I have to be honest: I'm happy to wait for a while. I'm glad to have got to know Dutchman in such propitious circumstances – not to mention all the photo opportunities for a certain porcine companion of mine – but I think I've had my fill for the time being. The Year of ThreeRingCycles is fast approaching. Bring on the Valkyries.
Huge success. For everyone, my tenor included. Fabio Luisi had, happily enough, heard my telepathic wish for a slightly slower "Winterstürme", which was a lovely bonus in a generally excellent show. (I mean, it was beautiful the first time round too, but I'm always happy for extra basking time in that aria.) Bryn brought the house down, and rightly so. I was so pleased to have this second chance to see and hear this show – not to mention a second chance to worry needlessly about the Brünnhilde double in the final scene – and to say another quick hello to New York. So quick, in fact, that with the show running until after 11pm, and a cab to the airport arriving at 6.15am – not to mention the small matter of dinner in between – we didn't actually sleep until we were airborne. Not to worry. It was worth all the exhaustion.
May 10: Véronique Gens at Wigmore Hall
In the last few years it's been quite an extraordinary experience to finally see live performances by the singers who dominated my CD collection for years. I've ticked quite a few of them off the list – more than I could have hoped for in fact – but Véronique had eluded me until last Friday. I could hardly have wished for a more ideal first encounter than this, a recital of French songs. Débussy, Hahn, Chausson and Fauré...are you drooling yet? I was, and with good reason. She was as divine as I imagined she would be – and then she made life even better by singing one of my favourite songs in the world, French or otherwise, as her encore: Poulenc's "Les chemins de l'amour". And while I was still wiping away my tears from that, she followed up with Fauré's "Les roses d'Ispahan", another song to which I have a bit of a sentimental attachment. Thanks for reading my mind so completely, Véronique.
May 12: La bohème at the ROH
I had no plans to see this while in London because Royal Opera tickets are expensive, the show was pretty much sold out anyway, and besides (pardon the heresy) it's one of my least favourite operas. My plans changed thanks to the unexpected generosity of the lovely Madeline Pierard – New Zealand's Own! – who, as the ROH announced earlier in the day, was going on as Musetta in place of an indisposed Nuccia Focile. So, with permission from you-know-who to ditch that night's performance of Dutchman at the ENO, I took myself to Covent Garden for what turned out to be the best live Bohème of my operagoing career to date. Joe Calleja was a genuinely loveable Rodolfo, to whom I award a special citation for his incredibly upsetting (and totally believable) reaction to Mimì's death; Carmen Giannattasio's oh-so-Italianate Mimì had my attention from note one; and Madeleine was first hilarious and then heartbreaking as Musetta. By the time she reached her prayer in Act IV, I was wished she had a sequel to herself. Rodolfo's bohemian buddies were all very charmingly played too. And as ever, despite earlier hard-heartedness, I succumbed in the end to Puccini's exceptional powers of manipulation and spent the last twenty minutes sniffling along with the rest of the audience.
May 13: Madam Butterfly at the ENO
My favourite Puccini opera. Very nearly my favourite opera. I love it madly. And yes, if I'm honest, I'd probably prefer to hear it in Italian, but it doesn't really matter: that score is what it is, and it makes mincemeat of me no matter what the language. Imprinting and diva worship being what they are, my heart will always belong in the final reckoning to Cheryl Barker and to Moffatt Oxenbould's exquisite Opera Australia production; but I was still enchanted by both Mary Plazas's tiny, porcelain Cio-Cio San and by Anthony Minghella's mesmerising production. And it was just wonderful to see and to hear Pamela Helen Stephen as Suzuki. I last heard her in Australia, when her late and much-missed husband Richard Hickox was chief conductor of Opera Australia. She was lovely then, and she's even lovelier now: a completely captivating Suzuki, which is no mean feat given how little Puccini gives her to work with. The ENO orchestra, who had been playing the living daylights out of Dutchman, were once again sensational, this time under Oleg Caetani. We were close, and it was loud, and I was in heaven. Oh, Cio-Cio San.
If you follow me on Twitter you may know we had a bit of excitement here a few days ago. We went to see the new Avengers movie (Joss Whedon Forever!) and came out to find a string of missed calls, messages and tweets to the effect that Jonas Kaufmann had cancelled his second performance of Die Walküre at the Met and that Stuart would therefore be going on as Siegmund on May 7th. He was always flying over to New York from London to cover that performance ("One man, two tenors" as Anna Picard put it) but I had planned to stay put here rather than make that lightning visit with him. Confirmation that he'd be singing changed all that; we got home from the movie and within an hour I was booked – thank you, air miles – on the same flights both ways. So tonight, there's a Dutchman; tomorrow, a plane and on Monday, a Walküre. It's madness...and all I have to do is sit in the audience.
Obviously we wish Jonas a speedy recovering from what's ailing him. This change of plans, however, has brought an extra piece of fortuitousness: unlike the performance on April 13th, this one will be broadcast on Sirius XM. Even better, that broadcast will be streamed live via the Met website, so you don't even need Sirius to listen. So yes, you can consider this post a little bit of a shameless plug. Listen! There's Bryn! And Eva! And everyone! And my tenor's pretty good at Siegmund! And since it's a full house, maybe one or two of you who are reading this post might even be there on Monday night. I know I will be. And I'll be bringing the pig.
I'm a little late with this, but then again, if I'd tried to write it earlier, it probably would have descended into illiterate squealing within seconds. Even now I'm in danger. The fact is this: last Friday night, The Tenor In My Life sang Siegmund in Die Walküre at the Met. He only had one shot at it – we're already in London for the next gig and Siegfried hasn't even happened yet – and I think it's safe to say he made the most of it. By which I mean, it was sensational. Within my own highly biased frame of reference, it was one of the most exciting performances I've seen him give.
That won't mean much to you, perhaps, but maybe this little factoid will: he managed to unite the doyennes of the Parterre commentariat. They can be (and frequently are) brutal and bitchy, and I was steeling myself forsomebody to find fault, but remarkably, nobody did. Instead there were comments like "the great revelation of the evening", "the next great heldentenor", "the best overall performance" and so on. And yeah, I know, they're blog comments, and if they didn't make me happy, I'd be the first to play down their credibility. Too bad. I intend to have it both ways.
Besides, there's a level at which I will take what I can get. Because the tragedy of this otherwise triumphant evening is that it was, technically at least, a revival, and as a result there was a grand total of one press reviewer in the audience – and he appears to be saving his thoughts until all three cycles. Sigh. Reviewers aren't everything, of course; again, when they say mean things about singers I love, I'm all too ready to dismiss or doubt them. But it would have been nice on such an important evening to have some sort of external record of this triumph. (There was also, alas, no radio broadcast, and the Met doesn't seem to have published any photos yet. I feel my inner conspiracy theorist stirring...)
Not to worry. I have my own memories, and those of the friends and colleagues who were in the audience. It was an amazing night, a thrill from start to finish, and the buzz both in the auditorium and backstage was palpable. I was insanely and tearfully proud and just plain bowled over. As a dear friend said on Twitter: that boy can sing. Yes, he can, and oh my, did he ever.
The whole cast was on fabulous form, from Deborah Voigt's oh-so-sympathetic Brünnhilde (I want her Pre-Raphaelite hair) to Stephanie Blythe's majestic Fricka (how does any human person sing like that?) to Hans-Peter König's sonorous Hunding. Then of course there wasBryn Terfel's Wotan, who broke my heart several times over. And there was the glorious Eva-Maria Westbroek (increasingly one of my very favourite sopranos) as a radiant and adorable Sieglinde. I had seen her in a few late rehearsals, and she was wonderful then, but I was quite taken aback with the emotional intensity that she'd saved up for the performance – not to mention the constant cascades of gorgeous, gorgeous voice. With such a sweet pair of Wälsung twins, who could possibly get on board with Fricka's arguments, logical as they may be? I sure couldn't.
The five hours of opera flew by and so have the subsequent days. I can't believe it's been almost a week. I'm still buzzing a bit (we both are) and prone to fits of glee. So I'll stop writing now, and point you in the direction of a lovely blog post by the excellent Lucy of Opera Obsession. As for me, the rest is squeals. Yay! Wälse! And so on.
I've been waiting a while for my chance to see Anna Caterina Antonacci, but the city of New York has had to wait even longer than that. For me it's only been six years, the time since I fell under the spell of her CD "Era la notte". Anna Caterina, however, has been in the business for decades and yet the recital she gave at Alice Tully Hall on Sunday was her New York début. Amazing.
And she was amazing. A better substitute for chocolate on Easter Sunday I can hardly imagine. She's famous for her shapeshifting voice: mezzo here, soprano there; inky black at one end and white gold at the other, with a scintillating spectrum in between. I've read about her versatility and distinctive sound (not to mention her captivating presence) countless times, but these things aren't quite real until experienced in person. Now I'm a true believer.
Fauré's Cinq mélodies "de Venise" were a delectable gateway to this celebration of the belle époque, but it was when Antonacci reached the open sea – quite literally, with Fauré's L'horizon chimérique – that she went from merely wonderful to downright thrilling. I was hooked – a little more decisively with every song – and when she switched to Italian for Hahn's Venetian songs, well, I was more or less in the palm of her hand. To think I nearly missed this concert – a technical glitch on the Lincoln Center website convinced me she had deservedly sold out, and it was only by chance that I checked again just a couple of days before the recital.
The second half was at least as opulent and a sight more operatic: songs by Cilea, Tosti, Mascagni, Respighi and Refice. It occured to me how rarely I've heard Italian repertoire (especially recital repertoire) sung by actual Italians: the colour and subtleties she twisted out of these songs were such as I suspect only a native speaker could manage. I loved the Cilea and Tosti especially. None of it repertoire I knew at all, but the distinctly Italianate lyricism of both the music and Antonacci's singing made it seem immediately familiar. She buried herself in each song to the hilt – pensive or expansive, wretched or comic, sweet or seductive – and managed to bring her operatic delivery right to the precipice of excess but never topple over.
I thought the near-capacity crowd might never let her go. She gave us three encores: Gimenez's "La tarantula", another Tosti song (so Olivia Giovetti's excellent review informs me) and Fauré's "Au bord de l'eau", which brought us full circle. To hear her scale back her forces so delicately, on the heels of all that high octane Mediterranean drama, was something very special. New York, your patience and mine have been rewarded. Now let's hope both of us see her again soon.
The last time I went to see Natalie Dessay at the Met – she was singing Lucia – we found ourselves sharing a box with Hei-Kyung Hong. She offered to share her cough drops with us. This morning when I went to see Natalie Dessay at the Met – this time as Violetta – Hei-Kyung Hong was there again. Only this time she was singing in Natalie's place. My favourite French pixie was, alas, indisposed; if only she'd asked Hong for a cough drop.
Ah, well, these things happen, and this was only the final dress rehearsal anyway (albeit a very full one) so I hope that, despite all the cynical speculation happening on Parterre, I might still have a chance to see Natalie's Violetta. (I've just checked the calendar and it turns out this chance hinges entirely on her singing opening night. Fingers crossed, then.) I liked the production and I'd like to see Natalie in it: I'm interested to see her in the role whatever the circumstances, but I suspect this very stripped back and crinoline-free take would be an especially good showcase for her.
Hei-Kyung Hong, however, is about as luxurious a cover as possible. I doubt anyone arriving halfway through would have guessed that she was anything other than the singer engaged from the beginning; after all, she's done a fair number of Met Violettas in her own right, not to mention a stack of other roles. (It's a big stack: the Met database lists 355 performances since her début in 1982.) She was lovely, especially in Act II, where she did some of the prettiest soft singing I've ever heard, and earns serious bonus points for singing such a huge role at such an early hour.
Weirdly enough this is only the second production of Traviata I've ever seen live. The opera is so entrenched in my brain – it was an early favourite and I was for a while obsessed with Anna Moffo's "Teneste la promessa" – that I feel like that can't possibly be true. But it is. I've seen Opera Australia's perennial Moshinsky production a number of times, with two sopranos and only one tenor, Aldo Di Toro, who always seems to persuade me that the opera might actually be about Alfredo.
Lo and behold, Matthew Polenzani had the same effect on me. I've only seen him once before, and that was a Schubert recital. Alfredo was such a complete change of pace that I wasn't sure what to expect, but Polenzani won me over quite conclusively: the longer he sang, the more I wanted him to keep singing, and his still-waters-run-deep characterisation was really quite wonderful. The big showdown at Flora's – as he threw money at Violetta and then himself to the floor – was especially moving, and a shocking transformation from the stiff and awkward suitor we'd met at the start.
In no way, shape, manner or form could Dmitri Hvrostovsky's Germont pass for the father of Polenzani's Alfredo; sophisticated older brother perhaps, or perhaps a suave mafioso. But in terms of credibility, that's a much easier obstacle to overcome than a cane and a feigned hunch, and Hvorostovsky has such bucketloads of authority – not to mention the kind of charisma that ought to be taxed – that it's no trouble at all to believe in the sway he holds over both Alfredo and Violetta. He sang masterfully throughout but "Di Provenza" was particularly exceptional and drew the biggest cheers of the performance. Quite honestly, even if Natalie disappears, I'd be tempted to go back just to hear that aria again.
Peter Gelb, in his announcement about Natalie, also dropped in a mild warning about Willy Decker's production which I'm sure is not everybody's cup of tea. It mostly worked for me, though: it's refreshingly uncluttered, both in aesthetic and psychology. I like the Ikea sets. And I'm always intrigued by directors who place characters onstage who usually wouldn't be there – not only does Decker include the principals in scenes they'd normally miss, he also has Violetta shadowed everywhere by a solemn and silent old man, who might be Fate, or Death, or Donald Sutherland, and eventually becomes Doctor Grenvil, making the character's grim prognosis that much more chilling. Actually this was a good day for the bit players: Maria Zifchak's Annina had such resounding beauty of tone that I kind of wished she had an aria.
It was the men who won this show for me: Polenzani, Hvrostovsky and let's not forget Fabio Luisi. You'd think a Ring Cycle would be work enough but no, there he is, conducting La traviata as well and doing it ravishingly too. Zippy tempi here and there – "Ah fors'e lui" in particular – but so finely textured and sensitive. I didn't realise until the music began just how much I was in the mood for a really good Traviata – I mostly blame Ruth Elleson for this and I think she knows why – and this fine group of artists ended up providing just what I needed.
One final highlight? Today was Open Day at the Met, and among the unusually large dress rehearsal audience were a lot of school kids, who reacted in delightfully unexpected ways. When Giorgio Germont slapped his son, they gasped as one...and when Alfredo ran in to embrace the dying Violetta, they burst into applause and cheers. Poor things must have been devastated when she died after all.
I'm fairly sure the Met saw me coming and quickly hid all the repertoire I'd most like to see. They've hidden it in plain sight (it's right there in the calendar after April 13th) but nevertheless I feel a little conspired against. When I leave, they bring out the Janacek and the Britten; while I'm here, there's Manon. There's also Die Walküre, of course, which is super-hyper-number-one priority and beside which nothing else really matters anyway – thus spake your objective narrator – but I still need my Met fix. We're living almost literally across the road from stage door and her siren song taunts me if I don't visit.
Add my withdrawal symptoms to the extreme adorability of Diana Damrau and you start to see why I was so determined to see L'elisir d'amore. If I had been spoilt for choice, and if the Adina had been less lovely, I might have given up hope when I saw how full the houses were – particularly when I realised I'd been hopeless once again and had only two chances left to see the show anyway – but this time I persisted. Or rather, my Friend At The Met (one guess who that is) persisted on my behalf and managed to snag for me what may well have been the very last space in the house: a Grand Tier standing room place.
This was the first time I'd done standing room for anything, and I think I'd need to build up my stamina before standing for anything much longer than L'elisir, but all in all it wasn't too uncomfortable – particularly in the second half, by which time half the occupants of my section had disappeared, along with their chronic need to talk. I couldn't see all of the set, but I could see enough of it; I could hear everything, and that's what mattered.
Diana Damrau was the darling of my heart from start to finish and my favourite voice of the afternoon. The silver and sweetness and exceptional dynamic control of her singing come across wonderfully on disc (which is how I get most of my Diana) but in person she reaches another dazzling level, and I loved her house filling notes just as much as her floatiest fairy floss pianissimi. She also plays "charmingly flustered" better than anyone. I would happily have heard her sing everything twice but as it was, the only person who had that chance was Nemorino.
Yes, Juan Diego Florez encored "Una furtiva lagrima". I don't know whether he'd done it already during the run – he didn't look particularly surprised or hesistant about it – but in any case, when the tumultuous applause had finally died down, somebody high above shouted "encore" and JDF duly obliged, even throwing a few new ornaments in the second time around. It wasn't a great moment for suspension of disbelief: he broke character to take bows before and after and then, when an awkward bit of staging meant the applause kept breaking out again, actually spoke to the audience – "Miss Damrau is waiting" – so that the show could continue. It was, however, a great moment for old fashioned operatic fun.
In fact, even as he sang the aria the first time, I felt like I'd entered a bit of a time warp, in the best sense. Juan Diego down there in his breeches, singing his beautifully shaped and oh-so-ardent rendition of one of the most familiar arias in the repertoire, set against the colourful flats of John Copley's pastel rainbow production, was like some sort of wonderful throwback. This, along with the all-encompassing Diananess, was one of the highlights of the afternoon for me; JDF's encore was just a bonus. As were his dance moves while "tra-la-la"-ing.
Forgive me if I say less about Alessandro Corbelli's gleeful Dulcamara or Mariusz Kwiecien's macho Belcore, who could have passed for Escamillo's slightly goofier brother. Both were admirable, and enthusiastically received. Corbelli was funnier and funnier as the show went on – his duets with Diana's Adina went down particularly well. Poor Belcore doesn't really get much time to preen, once "Come Paride" is out of the way, but Kwiecien certainly does an excellent line in macho bluster. I was also curious to hear Layla Claire, a Met Young Artist whose name kept coming up as one of the best things about The Enchanted Island. Like all good Giannettas ought, she made me wish Donizetti had given her a bit of a subplot. And it was great to hear the Met Orchestra again. Can't wait till they're let loose on Walküre.
It took me ten days to arrange this first fix but I think they'll be closer together now. At least one Traviata, two if I can swing it; the same for Rheingold; two Walküren including the dress; and I've just remembered there's Anna Caterina Antonacci at Alice Tully Hall to think about. Plus Porgy and Bess on Broadway, which sort of counts. The only Met production I'll miss is the Manon. I was curious to hear Anna Netrebko in person, but tickets are not to be had; at least, not for any sensible price. And Manon is far from my favourite opera, so I'm not inclined to fight. If only I'd been here for her Anna Bolena. But such is life: and in the midst of all the other diva goodness on offer here, it really would be churlish to complain.
You would think that all this travel I'm doing would make it easier to pursue my favourite singers (and in fact it mostly has) but Karina Gauvin has remained elusive. She's everywhere I'm not, her website taunting me with concerts of Handel arias or French songs destined always to remain beyond my reach. She's even singing in Australia this year. I've been beginning to despair. If only I knew every opera singer's travel plans through to 2015, the way I know my own; perhaps she's awaiting me in Paris or Seattle or London.
Then it turned all was not lost anyway; I found her in New York, singing in the St John Passion at Carnegie Hall with Les Violons du Roy. A mixed blessing. I mean, Bach is wonderful, clearly, and Karina singing Bach? Sensational. But Johann Sebastian, in his infinite wisdom, was writing to glorify God and not so much to please me: so we have a piece of music which is irrefutably glorious and transcendent and a thousand other devotional adjective ... but which doesn't give Karina Gauvin nearly enough to sing. Two arias? You're killing me, J.S.
Or is he? In fact she sang those two arias so gorgeously that they didn't feel like short shrift after all. She lived up to the adoring expectations which CDs and YouTube videos have helped me to build up and even confounded them (delightfully) in a couple of spots. Ten minutes of close-range Karina (I was in the front row) is infinitely preferable to no Karina at all, and while my addiction is still crying out for a more substantial fix, this was a fairly generous teaser; and in an emergency situation, I could survive on her "Zerfliesse, mein Herze" for weeks.
And while I would be completely prepared to sit in silence for an hour between two arias from Karina, that is of course not what we were doing. I had all manner of wonderful playing and singing to keep me company. Our tireless Evangelist was none other than Ian Bostridge, the first male singer I ever really "got", back in the days when my heart belonged mostly to Cecilia Bartoli and Barbara Bonney and tenors tended to pass me by. (Baritones were more perplexing still, one grey and unfathomable mass. How times change.) Neal Davies was Jesus, and singing alongside Karina in the other unnamed solo parts were countertenor Damien Guillon, bass-baritone Hanno Müller-Brachmann and, another highlight for me, tenor Nicholas Phan: a name long known to me via his blog and Twitter presence, and now via his excellent singing as well. Bernard Labadie conducted Les Violons du Roy and La Chapelle de Québec.
Diva worship, you see, is a force for good and for edification of the soul. The shameful truth is that without Karina's involvement, I would probably have shied away from a Sunday afternoon St John Passion. (The St Matthew Passion is likelier to tempt me on its own account, though I couldn't tell you precisely why.) But she pulled me in and it was time well spent. I've had a very satisfactory fix of Bach – now back to the hunt for More Karina.
Almost exactly a year since my last visit, I'm bound for New York again. Last time it was for a début, this time for a star turn: the tenor in my life will sing Siegmund in the opening Ring cycle at the Met. And in case you're wondering, no, I don't get sick of saying that. Siegmund! At the Met! Weirdly enough, although it's one of his signature roles, I've never yet heard him sing it live; in fact, I've never heard anyone sing it live. Well, not exactly. I heard Jonas Kaufmann twice from the Green Room last year, but I don't think that counts. As far as I'm concerned,the April 13th performance is my first live Die Walküre and Stuart is my first live Siegmund – and because, in this instance, I'm entitled to be just as spectacularly biased as I like, I can already tell you he'll be my favourite Siegmund too. So there.
Anyway, that accounts for one evening, and maybe a morning too if they let me into the general, but this is New York and there is plenty else to see. Not as much as last time, because we're only there half as long, but I repeat: It's New York. There's always something. Here's what's on my Must See List so far. Now I ask you, O Faithful Readers, to point out all the essential events I have unforgiveably missed.
St John Passion at Carnegie Hall I could pretend that this all about the transcendent beauty of Bach – and no doubt in part it will be – but the truth is, this is the only chance I'll have in the foreseeable future to see the oh-so-gorgeous Karina Gauvin in performance, and that is why I'm going. And why I'm sitting in the front row. In an ideal world, she'd be doing a solo recital, or a Handel opera, or something similarly vehicular. But in the absence of all that, this concert will do nicely.
Porgy and Bess Audra McDonald. Need I say more? I know that this is the meddled-with production which prompted a long and scathing letter from Stephen "God" Sondheim but I don't care. Audra is Audra is Audra. And it would be nice to see a production of Porgy and Bess, too.
Diva festival at the Met I'm really showing my soprano bias, aren't I? As if you're surprised. I don't really like Manon very much but am very keen finally to see and hear Anna Netrebko in action; L'elisir d'amore is a cute opera made unmissable by the delightful Miss Damrau; and while I have no idea whether Natalie Dessay really should sing Violetta, I can say without a doubt that I'm going to need to hear her do it. So those are my top three. Might be nice to hear Tom Hampson sing Macbeth, too, and my completist side is quietly hoping I'll make it to Rheingold as well.
Anna Caterina Antonacci in recital at Alice Tully Hall Another singer I've wanted to hear live for many years.
Seminar Not opera, not even musical. I'm not necessarily so good with the legitimate theatre, and this review doesn't inspire massive confidence, but I'd brave far greater danger for the chance of seeing Alan Rickman. Especially Alan Rickman "shredding egos". I always believed in you, Professor Snape!
So, New Yorkers and cultural ninjas: I'm in town from March 21st until April 13th. What unmissables am I missing? I'll never see everything, of course; but I'd hate to find out a day too late that I deprived myself of something exceptional.
– Oedipus Rex at the New Zealand International Arts Festival went very, very well. It's two years (I think) since I last heard it – at the Sydney Festival, again paired with the Symphony of Psalms and again conducted by Joana Carneiro – and I admit I'd forgotten just how cool the music is. Particularly Jocaste's. It's been earworming me ever since. Not a bad thing. Oedipus himself obviously has some pretty neat stuff to sing and it turns out the tenor in my life sings it quite well. (For quite well, read: wow.) Was also nice to see Daniel Sumegi again, of course, to meet Virgilio Marino and Margaret Medlyn for the first time and to finally meet Dunedin's Own Martin Snell. Martin was the first famous opera singer whose name I ever knew – even before I knew Kiri's, I think. He was our Dunedin Boy Who Made Good. Who knew, when I was five, that twenty-three years later, I'd be drinking pear cider with him? (NB: Mac's Pear Cider is really good.)
– After an abortive attempt in Dunedin, I managed to see The Adventures of Tintin on the plane from Auckland to San Francisco. As an enthusiastic but not slavish fan of the books, it was faithful enough (certainly to the spirit, if not always to the letter) to keep me happy, and in fact was worth watching just for the opening credits and for the first scene (no spoilers here). But I was especially curious to hear Renée Fleming as the singing voice of the Milanese Nightingale, the magnificent Bianca Castafiore, whose image (in keyring form) I carry with me always. I assume they just lifted her recording of "Ah! je ris..." from the aria disc in which it was included years ago, but it was somewhat disconcerting to hear the aria so nonsensically arranged in the interests of the plot. Castafiore's voice itself plays a key role in the scene, and needs to be doing certain things at certain times, so the aria lurches accordingly back and forth and then UP to a note pulled in from somewhere and somebody completely different. Maybe even computer generated. But at least they used the right aria. When her entrance was accompanied by the introduction to "Una voce poco fa" I was worried.
– Happy to say I'm London-bound again, much sooner than expected. Sadly not for the best possible reasons. Julian Gavin has unfortunately had to withdraw from the ENO's new production of The Flying Dutchman due to ill health. As a result, and thanks to the ENO and the MET kindly agreeing to share him, Stuart will now sing the role of Erik. It will be lovely to have another long stay in one of my favourite cities on earth, but obviously I wish the circumstances were happier. Here's to a speedy recovery for the wonderful Julian.
– But right now I'm in Chicago, where the CSO is about to do Das Lied von der Erde with You-Know-Who and the AWESOME Michelle DeYoung. I know. How lucky am I to keep running into her like this? There's still nobody – and clearly there never will be anybody – I'd rather hear in Das Lied. Adding to the excitement: it's the Chicago Symphony! The concerts were even supposed to be conducted by Pierre Boulez – just to throw a bit of legendariness into the mix – but alas, he's had to cancel on the advice of his ophthalmologist. I would have loved to have seen him in action. Jonathan Nott, however, is a more than admirable substitute. Plus there's Michelle! And Stuart! And the CSO! I think this will work out well.
– Véronique Gens's new(ish) CD is fantastic. But it deserves a blog post, not a bullet point. Watch this space. (Or, more accurately, I guess, the theoretical future space above this space. Or something.)
It seems to be becoming traditional for me to begin every blog post with 1. an exclamation about how long it's been since my last and 2. some creative excuses for my absence – to the point where I should probably stop exclaiming and just accept that I'm no longer the once-a-week blogger I used to be. Les neiges d'antan and all that. I can't even offer many excuses this time. I mean, sure, this last week has involved (wait, let me count) six flights, eight cities and two hemispheres – not to mention an excruciating thirty-six hours in dial up hell – but it was preceded by several weeks of lounging about in Spain and forgetting what green vegetables look like, when what I should have been doing was writing something – anything – about my favourite opera.
The fight with Butterfly would be hard-won, but yes, I'm 99.7% sure that Peter Grimes is in fact my favourite opera. Should I make it to see the Welsh National Opera's Butterfly in 2013, featuring Cheryl Barker in the title role, the ranking might swap around for a little while, but in the end, Britten always triumphs. Grimes is just too headpoundingly extraordinary to be beaten.
How convenient, then, that I have ended up travelling the world with the man who some would say (have said, in fact) is pretty much the Grimes of his generation. I know I think he is, and what's more, I've thought so since before I had such cause for bias. I lavished some of my best hyperbole ever on Stuart's Grimes for Opera Australia in 2009 – as did most of Sydney's operagoing population – and that was before I'd even met the man, much less run off with him. Not that it really matters. There was never a shortage, then or now, of people far more credible than I've ever been to declare his supremacy in the role, either in that mesmerising Opera Australia production or in the similarly triumphant ENO production which preceded it.
That ENO show is the one that's just been in Oviedo, along with half the original cast, half the cast from the Vlaamse Opera, where it's been in between, and, well, yours truly. I wrote about the sitzprobe earlier, the only rehearsal I went to until the final dress, in order to preserve the shocks and horrors of a production which more than one Londoner has told me is among the most exceptional they've seen. It was the right choice; in fact, just the jawdropping conclusion to Act II, when (SPOILER ALERT) a panicked and sobbing Grimes actually drags the bloodied corpse of his apprentice back on to the stage, was in and of itself worth all of my willpower.
Inside the Teatro Campoamor.
Alden's production is in many ways the polar opposite of Neil Armfield's: alienating rather than humanising, cruel instead of compassionate, and just plain weird where Armfield's was agonisingly naturalistic. If I'm honest, I think the Armfield has imprinted me, ducklike. It wasn't my first Grimes, but it might as well have been: it was the first Grimes which got to me, and one of the most moving experiences (theatrical or otherwise) of my life. That's hard to beat. Impossible, in fact.
But it doesn't preclude me from seeing the brilliance of other stagings, and Alden's unquestionably has brilliance in abundance. I don't pretend to understand all its intricacies, nor do I trust myself to describe it adequately. Reviews like this one will give you the basic idea; beyond that is a web of infinite detail and deep, dark ambiguities. I noticed new things every time I saw it, and emerged with new questions. I marvelled at how closely every little bit of stage business was tied to both libretto and score. I recoiled from, then was drawn back to, every grotesque villager in turn, from the oily Ned Keene to the drug-addled Mrs Sedley to creepy, creepy (yet oh so pitiable) Nieces.
And as ever, I hoped that this would be the time that Grimes followed Balstrode's advice, married Ellen immediately and moved away from the Borough. He never does. I still keep hoping he will. I'm sure it was a combination of factors – the production as a whole, the way Stuart plays (and sings...oh how he sings) the role, the way the rest of the cast interacts with him, and the advent of my own personal connection – but I felt more sympathetic than ever to Grimes this time around. In Sydney, he was a character doomed from the outset by his own obvious inability to cope with everyday life – he was forever on the edge of rage, of anger, of despair.
In Oviedo I saw a more adult Grimes, a man still (at least to begin with) connected to reality, and who might just have been able to make it work until everything went so horribly wrong. In Alden's Borough, Peter Grimes isn't the strange one, or the villain, or the madman. Everybody else is messed up, and he's their victim. Not blameless, but undoubtedly wronged. Grimes ripped my heart out in Sydney, and in Oviedo, he ripped it out again – in a slightly different way but with no less force. And while the Opera Australia production is still the best production of any opera I've ever seen anywhere, I have to say: closing night in Oviedo was the best Grimes I've yet seen Stuart sing. For all I know it outdid the London performances too.
I haven't mentioned the rest of the cast, and I need to, because they did a wonderful job. My particular favourite may just have been Leigh Melrose as Ned Keene – such a mess of lechery and vices, and yet so hilariously played that, forgive me, I kind of liked him. (It did help that he sang it so perfectly.) Judith Howarth was all gorgeous tone and legato as Ellen, Peter Sidholm terribly dashing in his naval uniform, and Michael Colvin's bright tenorial stylings were ideal Bob Boles. Carole Wilson's fiercely blustery Mrs Sedley, and Rebecca de Pont Davies's German Expressionist Auntie was two masterpieces of mezzo menace.
Darren Jeffery's Hobson was as intimidating in stature as in voice, Matthew Best sonorous and superior as Swallow, while Phillip Sheffield made it bravely through some appallingly timed throat trouble to be the world's most obsequious Rector. And I can't forget the terrible twins – Gillian Dazeley-Ramm and Tineke Van Ingelgem as the spooky schoolgirl Nieces, their role rather larger in Alden's hands than usual, and requiring not only lovely singing (which they also provided) but also a lot of complex choreography, in whch they also excelled. I just hope I never meet them in a dark alley. Or in my nightmares.
Giant thumbs up also to the OSPA (Oviedo's opera orchestra) and conductor Corrado Rovaris, for a fantastic realisation of the Best Score Ever, to the chorus – Peter Grimes is enough of a challenge for a full-time, Anglophone chorus, let alone a part time group of Spanish speakers, and they did a very impressive job, to the supernumeraries and dancers, and last but not least, to the administation of the Opera de Oviedo, who looked after us so beautifully.
In fact, thumbs up to the city of Oviedo as a whole. Our five weeks there flew by. The wine, the food, the rugby, the public art (statues everywhere), the fur coats (I've never seen so many in one place), the architecture both very old and very new...I could go on. It was all such a joy. I hope we'll make it back soon.
Artist's impression: a sketch by Francesco, the assistant choreographer.
Friday night was the sitzprobe of Peter Grimes here in Oviedo. And when I say night, I mean it. Spanish rehearsal schedules, just like Spanish shops, factor in the siesta as a matter of course, and thus we found ourselves at a sitzprobe which began at 8pm and ran until midnight. At least bars and restaurants were still open when we emerged.
Rehearsals for this show have been running since the start of the month, but this was my first glimpse of them. It's possible I could have weaselled my way into one or two earlier on, and I might have done, had this production not been so thoroughly talked up by everyone connected with it: both those involved, and those who saw it when it made such a huge splash in London back in 2009. I decided I should be good and stay away, so as not to spoil any of its surprises.
But at the sitz, I figured I'd be safe, and so I was: apart from the chorus practicing some of their creepy choreography, there were no hints dropped, no great coups de théatre revealed. Just a bunch of fantastic singers sitting (or standing) around and singing some of the best music ever written, while I attempted to maintain my dignity in the stalls. No opera makes more of a mess of me than Peter Grimes. Particularly in the theatre. Most operas have one or two bits at most that might make me cry; Grimes seems to be constructed of nothing but those bits, so I had come to this rehearsal armed with tissues and prepared to make a small, tearstained spectacle of myself.
As it was, however, only the wordless chorus in Act III made me lose it completely, which it always does, in any context. Otherwise, I welled up every fifteen seconds or so, but otherwise I coped. Not having sets, costumes or any stage business probably helped, as did the stop-and-start nature of a rehearsal like this. For once, instead of having my life temporarily and gloriously ruined by my Favourite Opera Ever, I was able to observe the practical, technical side of the rehearsal, which is still a source of fascination for me.
Watching maestro Corrado Rovaris at work (trilingually) was wonderful – the orchestra is already sounding excellent – and it was also impressive to see the famous David Alden, whose production this is, air-conducting in the stalls. He knows every note of this score. And best of all, I was able to hear my favourite opera sung live for the first time since Opera Australia's production in 2009. Still the most extraordinary operatic experience of my life, and still remarkably fresh in my memory: I found, as this cast sang, that I could still mentally overlay what I heard (and saw) in Sydney more than two years ago. I still remember how Susan Gritton sang "Hush Peter", how Nicholas Bakopoulos-Cooke cowered as the Apprentice, Kanen Breen's supercilious Rector, and I don't suppose I shall ever heard anyone as Balstrode without my mind's ear immediately switching to Peter Coleman-Wright.
That's not to play down the excellence of this cast, of course. With the exception, obviously, of Grimes himself, I've never heard any of these singers live before. They're a brilliant lot, perfectly cast. Judith Howarth's Embroidery Aria was heartbreaking enough in rehearsal, so will no doubt destroy me live; the nieces are fabulous, and the various men of the village – Ned, Hobson, Swallow and so on – make a motley crew in the best possible way. I can't wait to see them all come to life on opening night. I have no doubt this show will be worth every bit of the hype.
But in the meantime, I'm off to the rugby again today with half the cast. Most of the boys, and a niece, I think. Nice to know that the villagers and Grimes can put aside their persecution issues for the sake of sport, isn't it?
Lately, the "S*** [insert group of people here] Say" meme has apparently been doing the rounds of the Internet, although to be honest I only owe this knowledge to suggestions (on one of the sillier blogs I frequent) that it was about to die out anyway. Know Your Meme has a better explanation than I could muster, should you be hungering for some context, but the reason I've brought all of this up is because – and this sort of thing always makes me happy – the meme now has an operatic incarnation. Two, in fact.
This one showed up on my Facebook feed this afternoon.
And when I, in turn, shared it, this one was brought to my attention by the excellent Mr Andrew Finden. It's from a slightly less student-y perspective than the first, and a bit more slickly produced.
I do love the blonde wig. This video also had the bonus of reminding me about Jennifer Rivera (the mezzo in the video, in case you've not watched it). Jennifer (aka Sestissimo) has been blogging for years, but I fear I've neglected her wonderful blog something chronic. There's no good reason for this: over the years, I've landed there on many occasions, loved it, promised myself to keep up with it, and then...not done so. Hopeless. But I've just been catching up with the last six months or so (less impressive than it sounds, as her posts have been brilliant but sparse) and I hope that maybe this time I Will Be Good, and stick with her. You should too. Maybe you already do.
And now that we've had Jennifer (and the similarly hilarious Will Ferguson) in comic mode, here she is in serious Handelian mode, singing up a storm as Nerone in Handel's Agrippina at the Berlin Staatsoper.
I spent most of this afternoon reading tenor Christopher Gillett's very funny book, Who's My Bottom? I will confess that I retain a slight – and no doubt old fashioned – wariness of self published books, the product of a life spent in bookshops fending off productions which more than justify the term "vanity publishing" – but in this case I had no such suspicions. I knew Gillett's writing from his blog – this post, in particular, was one of those "thank you for writing down all my own thoughts so articulately" moments – and I knew the book must be good, because ever since its publication, my Twitter feed has been full of people whose tastes I trust relating the guffaws it had given them.
Now, I am very very good indeed at intending to read books, and very very bad at obtaining and reading them, so not surprisingly, hadn't got around to acquiring this one. However, I recently risked bringing shame upon my family of Book People and had Santa bring me a Kindle for Christmas. Do I feel guilty? A little, but I have to be honest, it's almost obscenely convenient, and it has definitely made the leap from "I Want" to "I Own" a whole lot shorter. This afternoon it occured to me to wonder whether Who's My Bottom? (which I seem determined to type as "Where's My Bottom?", a Freudian slip I'd really rather not investigate) was available for Kindle, and ten minutes later, 'twas mine.
The book is essentially a series of brief and hilarious glimpses of behind-the-scenes madness in the opera world. Not necessarily grand scale madness, but just the sort of absurdities, eccentricities and frustrations which every singer runs into, but which few, I suspect, would have the talent to do justice on paper. Gillett, however, has just that talent. He's honest – about himself as much as anybody or anything else – but not bitchy; he names just enough names (and places) that a cursory Google will find you the specifics (if you need them); and above all he's very, very funny. And while I've only spent a year involved in this side of the business – and indirectly at that – I can tell you that most of Gillett's stories had me grinning (or grimacing) in recognition. It really is like this, or at least it can be.
The title, by the way, is (if you hadn't guessed it already) a reference to Britten's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Gillett has made the role of Flute in that opera something of a signature part, and indeed anecdotes from various Dream productions abound – including reports from a recent-ish Madrid production, which frame the book as a whole. In fact, parallels between Flute and Gillett himself become a motif, not to mention a running joke. (He does seem to have spent a lot of his early career in drag.)
Lest this blog post grow longer than the book itself, I'll start stopping now, but you'll have gathered in any case that this is a recommendation. There are plenty of tell-all books about opera, but a lot of them come with an agenda, and many are rather dated by now – Frances Alda's catty memoir is hilarious but probably not massively reflective of today's opera business...although then again... Anyway, the point is, this isn't really a tell-all book, so much as a tell-some-and-funnily book, and a very witty – if, alas, all too fleeting – insight into what goes on behind the curtains and out of earshot.
Oh, and a couple of side notes for Australian opera types: the Bottom Christopher meets in the book's opening pages is of course none other than our own Conal Coad, and we know from OA's production how perfect he is in that role; and while his name doesn't come up in descriptions of the nudity-laced rehearsals, Rosa, a Horse Opera also numbered one Lyndon Terracini among its cast.
This should by rights have been my New Year's Eve post, a round up of all that was grand and glorious for me in 2011, just as it drew to a close. Then several things got in the way: my incompetence, which caused me inadvertently to delete said post; Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve; our own New Year's Eve celebrations; sleep; and last, but not least, a drive to Miami and a flight to Spain, with absurd behaviour from American Airlines obstructing our progress wherever possible.
We made it, however, and are now starting to settle into Oviedo. Rehearsals for Peter Grimes are in their second day and although 2012 is nearly half a week old, I'd still like to celebrate a few of last year's highlights. After all, there's no opera here until Grimes opens, in three weeks or so, so I have to find other blogging fodder, and what better than a list? I love lists.
Thus I give you, in no particular order, my Top Eleven of 2011.
London
Our travel for the year began here, and while it was not my first visit, it was my longest, and reinforced once again my eternal love for this city. I mean, the duck confit sandwiches at Borough Market would actually be reason enough on their own for devotion, but then you start piling on the museums, the parks, the shopping, the Indian food, the sheer sense of history, the theatre and oh my gosh the music. I don't know how people who live there permanently cope with it all: we were only there for eight weeks, and the volume and quality of live classical music on offer was already overwhelming. I saw plenty, but missed even more; and such was the concentration of brilliance that I was twice obliged to forsake my own tenor's Parsifal in favour of other, less repeatable delights. The weather was pretty rotten but if I could have stayed forever, I'd still have done so in a heartbeat.
The Met
Mecca. I finally made it there, and for the most part it lived up to my expectations. Which is to say, it was huge, quite glamorous, and offered an impressive variety of repertoire and an even more impressive line-up of star soloists. Suddenly my CD collection came to life: there were Joyce DiDonato, Diana Damrau, Juan Diego Florez, Renée Fleming, Joe Calleja, Bryn Terfel, Deborah Voigt, Karita Mattila, Peter Mattei, Natalie Dessay and and and ... the list goes on.
And because I was there in the company of another of those star soloists – whose own Met début was even more exciting than any of the star spotting – I was able to experience the backstage half of the company too. I was in the Green Room on opening night of Walküre when ill health forced the divine Eva Maria Westbroek out halfway through and Margaret Jane Wray was summoned to take over (which she did magnificently). We went and said hi to Joyce before she strutted her stuff as the Komponist in Ariadne auf Naxos. I was even hugged by Bryn Terfel. And I'm sure this all sounds like so much insufferable namedropping, but believe me, it's said with nothing but awe and disbelief. Maybe as time goes by, I'll become jaded, but right now I'm still wide-eyed as anything.
Michelle DeYoung
I've lost count of how many times I've raved about Michelle this year, but it's quite a few. She's so worth it. I was fortunate enough to hear Michelle three times this year, in three different countries: as Judith in Bluebeard's Castle with the New York Philharmonic, then in Das Lied von der Erde in Hong Kong and again in Sydney in Mahler 2. Believe it or not, I'm actually not stalking her; but given half a chance, I probably would. She's truly amazing: a wonderful artist, with a voice which is both heaven and earth, all at once, and also one of the coolest people I know. Michelle, you rule.
Orchestras with proper pits
Sydneysiders will understand. While I will always feel a sort of filial affection (coupled with seething frustration) for the Sydney Opera House's Opera Theatre, with its dodgy acoustic and hellish concrete pit, it has been quite a revelation to spend this year in opera houses which don't stow their orchestras under the stage, and whose auditoria are actually, you know, designed for opera. Even the Santa Fe Opera, which is effectively outside, pulls off a fuller, more convincing sound, and the Met, or in Zürich or at either of London's opera houses, well, let's just say you don't know what you're missing until it smacks you round the head. In a good way.
Cheryl's Tosca
Let me get this out of the way first: I am stupendously grateful to whichever operatic deity ensured that Cheryl didn't cancel on me. She has been known to do so, and while I, whose devotion is unconditional, always forgive her for it, it might have been a bitterer pill to swallow this time. When I lived in Sydney, I just booked for every show so that I was covered either way. But I had to fly to Brisbane from Taiwan, and I could only stay long enough for two shows, so the potential for a shattered heart was far greater. Actually she did shatter my heart, but by showing up, not by cancelling. Her Tosca was all I could have hoped for – and I'd been hoping for a while, ever since she was announced for – and then bowed out of – Opera Australia's Tosca two years earlier. As spoilt rotten with opera as I am these days, it still stings a little that I've left the town where I could see my favouritest soprano on a remarkably regular basis – pursuing her is harder now, but my dash across the globe for her Tosca proved that it's still ridiculously worthwhile.
Wagner
From the moment I was brave enough to dip my toes in Wagnerian waters, I've loved the stuff, but for many years never felt I had the fortitude to spend more than the occasional afternoon in its company. Wagner, I felt, was the antithesis of background music – it required all of my energies and attentions – and thus, because I am inherently lazy, I ended up listening to very little. Then along came a Heldentenor and I had no choice but to be immersed. Well, it's been grand. I know Parsifal almost as well now as I know Don Giovanni or Vec Makropulos – a circumstance I hardly saw coming – and can make Lohengrin jokes with the best of them. I know Walküre better than I did a year ago and by the end of 2013 I think I'll probably have it (or at least the first two acts...) down pat.
I love it still, and I still find it perfect and transcendent and all of that stuff which Wagner so patently is. Never too long, too ponderous, too slow or too loud. I've seen more Parsifals this year than your average bear – fifteen I think, in two productions – and it only gets better. I've learnt to love Wagner in rehearsal chunks and in full performance, and I look forward to the day – and it will come – when Tristan arrives.
God
Meaning, of course, Sir John Tomlinson. His Gurnemanz at the ENO was awe-inspiring – imposing and sonorous yet quivering with human emotion, a privilege to behold every single time. And yes, I was also lucky enough to experience Matti Salminen's Gurnemanz, and yes, he's also God, pretty much, though in a rather scarier, Old Testament-y way. Sir John's was the one that got to my heart, however. He was also the first person this year to turn me into a babbling fangrrl when I met him.
Ned Canty
The whole Santa Fe experience was fantastic from start to finish – the food was excellent, the views mindboggling, the opera company treated us beautifully and the show we were there for, Daniel Slater's production of Wozzeck under the inspired leadership of David Robertson, was a massive success. The town itself, and its surrounds, were a revelation in themselves. But operatically speaking, the biggest revelation was the directorial genius of Ned Canty, whose production of Menotti's rarely performed The Last Savage provided one of the smartest, funniest and most captivating nights I've ever had in the theatre. The opera itself was fine, musically, and surprisingly hilarious, but I have no doubt that it was Canty's superb production – and the pitch-perfect performances he drew from a very talented cast – which really caused this rarity to scintillate. I really, really hope to have another chance to see his work, and soon.
Eva Maria Westbroek
I fell for her first in Turnage's Anna Nicole, which did her glorious talents scant justice but still couldn't hide her radiant presence or the liquid gold of her voice. I fell for her again on DVD, in a weirdo production of Fanciulla del West, where I wished she could sing forever, in every role. I missed her, would you believe, in Walküre; even being Siegmund's cover (or his consort) wasn't enough to get tickets for that sold out show. I did meet her, by happy chance, and reverted to babbling fangrrl mode once again. I've been devouring YouTube clips ever since. And this year on April 13 – o wondrous day! – I shall submit to a surfeit of delights, when the Met starts Ring-cycling again and my tenor sings Siegmund to Eva Maria's Sieglinde. I should start training my hands now for the ovations.
Surreal encounters
There have been a few, but the winner has to be the day we arrived in Zürich – and my apologies if I've told you this story before – and found that the key to our apartment didn't work. In the ensuing attempts to unlock the door, we were assisted by two of our neighbours: who turned out to be José van Dam and Peter Seiffert. José made many valiant attempts to wrestle the door open, but in the end it was to no avail, so his wife kindly drove off to collect a new key for us while Peter provided red wine and chocolates. The image of us all, clustered together on the landing and conducting trilingual conversation – while my inner voice squealed that's Lucia Popp's widower! – is not one I'm ever likely to forget. And if I were in need of an emblem of how completely different my life became in 2011, well, there it is.
The tenor in my life
Forgive me now if I get soppy and a bit more autobiographical than usual. It's only for a moment. It has to be said, however, that the facilitator of practically all of the above – the glamorous, the gorgeous, the transcendent, the surreal and the newly pervasive first person plural pronoun – has of course been Stuart, the tenor I ran off with just as 2010 was ending. 2011 has meant a completely new life for me. When I announced all the changes, almost exactly a year ago, I titled the post "Happy New Everything". Well, it's a little less new these days, I suppose, but believe me, just as happy. Happier, in fact. I'm living a life I could never have predicted, an opera fanatic's dream in many ways; but the best thing about it, when it comes down to it, is just having an awesome person to share it all with. He's got a nasty habit of murdering swans, of course, but hey – nobody's perfect.
Right, that's the soppy bit – and the list as a whole – over and done with. Here's your reward for making it this far.
It's Joyce! Because I can't quite believe I didn't give her a separate listing here.
As I write this, it's Christmas Day in two of my home countries and Christmas Eve here in my third. So, Merry Christmas everyone! Here's some Christmas music for you all: some of it operatic, some of it not, all of it pretty wonderful. Enjoy.
What better way to spend the free night between performances #1 and #2 of Das Lied von der Erde than with a ridiculous French operetta? Hey, if it's good enough for Sir Simon Rattle (who's been conducting both) then it's good enough for me. Besides which, I am a Magdalena Kozena groupie, and it would have been churlish to miss her while we were all in the same city. So it was off to the Staatsoper on another cold Berlin night. And not to Unter den Linden – that venue's currently undergoing major renovations – but to the Schiller Theater in Charlottenburg, the Staatsoper's pleasant (if slightly spartan) temporary home.
I'm always pleased to see Magdalena, and L'étoile, if you'll pardon the pun, is certainly a nice star vehicle for a mezzo: Lazuli (the pants role) gets more arias than a Handel hero. Seriously. S/he also gets the final bow – but I think it's safe to say that (again, pardon the pun) the evening's biggest star was the desperately funny Jean-Paul Fouchécourt as King Ouf, exploiting his diminutive stature (I never realised he was so little!) to his advantage with dead-on comic timing.
And for me, the other (triple pun warning) star of L'etoile was Stella. Doufexis, that is. I've known the name from CD covers for a while now, and somehow had got it into my head that she was 1. French and 2. a soprano. Turns out she's 1. German-Greek, 2. a mezzo and 3. wonderful. It was a shame that her character (Aloès) had comparatively little solo singing. Here she is with some Offenbach. If you're at all familiar with my vocal predilections, it probably won't surprise you that she was my favourite.
I can't say I was massively taken with the opera itself. It had its moments of charming French eccentricity, and also moments of proper comedy, but somehow was never quite as kooky or as funny as the set-up (loopy king, confused lovers, comedy Frenchmen and everyone in disguise) suggested it might be. And just as you thought it was about to take madcap flight, Chabrier chose instead to slow everything down, with interminable ensembles which lost momentum about halfway through. Dale Duesing's 1950s hotel setting (with the odd inexplicably anachronistic costume) was very appealing, though, and I am a bit of a sucker for comic opera with choreography. Not sure why the men's chorus broke into a quasi-haka at one point though.
The other highlight for me? The program. I don't often buy programs, I'm afraid, but I was informed that the Staatsoper's were something special. And so they are. They're little hardcover books, nicely bound and beautifully presented: the sort of thing I suspect Frindley would love. Evidently they're famous, so maybe you've all seen them before, but nevertheless here's a not-very-good photo of my program for L'étoile.
Pretty, isn't it? And half the price, I might add, of Opera Australia's rather less gorgeous publications. It's full of essays (auf Deutsch) which I shall probably never read, but it really is a lovely keepsake.
L'etoile may not be my new favourite opera but I was happy just to experience the (albeit transplanted) Staatsoper for the first time – not to mention a pretty nifty cast and the sheer thrill of novelty. And now I have a new mezzo to love, which can only be a Very Good Thing.
Berlin is cold but Christmassy and I'm delighted to say that The Tenor in My Life made a spectacular Berlin Philharmonic début last night. Just amazing. I've heard him sing Das Lied von der Erde a billion times (well, almost) and it's always fantastic but I'm prepared to say that last night's was the best yet. The urge among the audience to applaud after the fifth song (his last, but of course not the end of the piece) was palpable. And oh my word can that band play. I have to say, sitting there and listening to the Berlin Philharmonic play Mahler was definitely one of those extraordinary how-did-I-get-here moments.
Not to mention the bonus of hearing Anne Sofie von Otter sing the alto half of Das Lied – first time I'd heard her live – and Gerald Finley being fabulous in the final scene of Cunning Little Vixen, which started the concert. Das Lied and Janacek gloriousness in the same night, and played by one of the best orchestras in the universe – with Sir Simon Rattle on the podium, what's more. It really doesn't get much better than that, does it?
Two more concerts, tomorrow and Saturday. The last is particularly exciting as it's to be broadcast globally via the Berlin Phil's Digital Concert Hall. So even if you're not in Berlin – if you're in, say, Australia (hint hint) and want to support a homegrown heldentenor (hint hint) – you can still watch it, either live or after the fact, as they archive everything. Ain't technology swell?
Please alert your Operatic Elf Division (or Universal Music) that these are the presents I'd like. They don't exist yet but I have absolute faith in your little helpers to make them happen.
Natalie Dessay: songs of Débussy, Poulenc, Satie and Fauré. Natalie doesn't seem to do art song, and I've never quite understood why. And while I could happily live on the French song albums of her compatriots Sandrine Piau and Véronique Gens – not to mention the Divine Flott – I'm still curious as to what she'd do with this repertoire.
The Complete Elly Ameling Edition. I am catching up, lamentably late, with the glory that is Elly Ameling, but my trademark laziness is, as usual, doing battle with my completist aspirations. I just want it all, and, like Veruca Salt, I want it now. A complete Mirella Freni edition wouldn't go amiss either; I have quite a bit of her, but I know there are gaps, and one can never have too much Mirella.
Karina Gauvin Sings: The Phone Book. She might as well. I'd listen to it.
Stuart Skelton: German Romantic arias and orchestral songs. Thus spake bias, but hey, I'm guessing that if you've heard him, you'd quite like this to exist too, no? And speaking of Australian singers in need of solo discs, where oh where is Peter Coleman-Wright sings Baritone Hits when you need it? ABC Classics, I'm looking at you. And while we're at it, the world would be a better place if Duets and Debauchery with Jacqui Dark and Kanen Breen were a real thing.
A chance (and a ticket) to see Aleksandra Kurzak live. I've consulted my calendar and hers, and so far, we scheduled to coincide exactly nowhere. Hope, however, springs eternal.
Michelle DeYoung Sings: Anything She Darn Well Pleases. As with Karina. I am at her mercy. Anything she chooses to sing will delight me. And I will buy it for everyone I know. And for strangers. And an extra copy for myself, just in case.
I would also really appreciate it if the Elves could dig up a beautifully produced studio Lohengrin with Lucia Popp as Elsa and, say, James King in the title role. If Melba Recordings cares to do a Thaïs with Cheryl and Peter, well, I wouldn't complain. And let's not forget the Opera Australia Britten DVDs. Midsummer Night's Dream, Turn of the Screw, Billy Budd and, oh yes, Peter Grimes. Hey, it's Christmas: a girl can dream.
So much for the realms of fantasy. Now for some excerpts from my real life wish list:
Véronique Gens: Tragédiennes III. One serious disadvantage of no longer working in classical music retail is that releases like this pass me by completely. I waited for Volume II for weeks, tore into every box from EMI/Virgin with indecent haste, and snapped up the very first copy we unpacked. But I only found out Volume III existed courtesy of somebody's throwaway comment on (sigh) Parterre. I've yet to see it in a physical CD store; that's still my preference, but the day is fast approaching when I give in and download the thing.
As many tickets as I can sensibly acquire for Opera Australia's Salome and Die Tote Stadt. I'm still not convinced on the whole Korngold-wrote-film-scores-so-it's-OK-to-pipe-the-orchestra-in thing, but hey: Cheryl. As Marie/Marietta. And Salome needs no explanation. Amazingly, I will be in Australia at the right time for both.
All the Karina Gauvin I don't already own. Self explanatory. I'm getting there, but some help would be nice, Santa!
Alice Coote: The Power of Love. I cannot tell you how much I've longed for another Alice Coote recital disc, and at last, it's on its way. (The title is giving me visions of Alice Coote as Céline Dion, but this seems unlikely to eventuate.)
Cheryl Barker: Pure Diva. I downloaded it, so buying the physical CD has slipped down my priority list. But it would still be nice to own, if not to fork out for. Ergo, ideal stocking stuffer.
Enough demands? Probably. Once again I have betrayed my teenybopper nature – I'm afraid I can't help but feel guilty for not filling my list with rare archival recordings of Amelita Galli-Curci or eleven different Callas Toscas. But maybe I should beat myself up instead for asking Santa for anything at all. The amount of amazing live opera I'll be brushing up again in the next twelve months is an embarassment of riches: enough for any number of Christmases, I'd say.
Now tell me (and I'll tell Santa). What's on your wish list, real or fantastic?
Hello again. I'm back. Back in Orlando, after a very laidback holiday in Sydney. Back blogging after – oh my – three weeks of silence. And most noticeably of all, of course, I'm back on Typepad after ten months of Tumblr.
Tumblr was fun while it lasted, and it does have some cool tricks which I'll miss. But not as much as I've come to miss Typepad. I just don't think that my blog or I are destined to find a permanent home in Tumblr-land, and even the (admittedly tedious) process of transporting the bulk of my Tumblr posts over to my new (old) digs only served to reinforce how much better a match Typepad is. Returning to this blog — and to the seven years worth of writing which were here before I moved — is like coming home.
It does also mean returning to my old blog address and its matching title. So while I've enjoyed having a blog whose name I could tell people without feeling slightly pretentious — and as proud as I was of my play on words — I fear it's farewell to Vocal Supporter and hello again to Prima la musica. Again, the familiarity makes me happy, as does the continuity — my Facebook and Twitter profiles, and my email address, are all still primalamusica and I really do like it when stuff matches.
The Tumblr experience has made an impression, though. I've grown used to short format blogging alongside my more verbose efforts, so I think that will probably continue, even if posting videos, photos and so on isn't quite so ridiculously simple over here. That said, it already seems easier than it did ten months ago, when I moved, and my guess is that that's something Typepad will keep on improving.
So if you moved with me from Typepad to Tumblr, then I hope you're not too irritated about moving back; if you only ever read me on Tumblr, then I'd love it if you stuck with me despite this betrayal; and if you gave up on me completely when I made the switch (and fair enough) then, well, you were right. Here I am, back where I'm pretty sure I belong.
Oh and speaking of resurrections: while it wasn't the reason we went, one of the biggest bonuses of our time in Sydney was the Sydney Symphony's performance of Mahler 2. First time I've heard it live. Pretty darn cool. And no prizes for guessing that the highlight for me was the one and only Michelle DeYoung. Who was amazing – that's really not a big enough word – and made me wish Mahler had given his alto soloist maybe fifty times as much to sing. I could listen forever to that warm, velvety and all encompassing voice. She just seems somehow to operate on a higher plane than us mere mortals. How she does it is anybody's guess but I'm just honoured to sit back and behold in wonder. (Yeah, I might be a bit of a fan. Michelle, you rule.)
By way of conclusion – if you're feeling strong – here she is to make you weep, in the performance of Mahler 2 given in New York this past September to commemorate 9/11.
Oh, and a remarkably well timed email from the Sydney Symphony has just informed me that you can watch selected concerts from their Mahler Odyssey – including the Mahler 2 – online here.
Curses, almost a week since Lohengrin opened — with the next show only two days away — and I still haven't written a word about it.
Well, here's one word: magic.
And here are some more. Opening night was brilliant. I'd been to a few rehearsals, but I'd only ever seen chunks of individual acts. Never the whole show, never with the full setand never with everyone in costume. Such is life in a Wiederaufnahme. I'd never even seen the swan — but that, as it turned out, was a piece of excellent luck. Its arrival was breathtaking, its revelation of the young prince at the end even more so (I cried...) and I was so glad not to have had either surprise spoilt ahead of time.
The set in all its glory is showing its age here and there but this I forgive, given that it's a year and a day older than me. I don't look like I did in 1983 either. It's still very grand and, I have to say, it really is a joy to see an old-fashioned show, with knights in armour and swords and ladies in brocade and all that stuff. After nine months of Wozzecks and non-literal Parsifals, excellent though they've all been, it's nice to spend a little time with a Lohengrin that's jumped straight out of a storybook.
I wish I could point you to a review somewhere for a (comparatively) unbiased take on the singing, but alas, no critic seems to have seen fit to cover this show yet. What I can say is that Marjorie Owens and Tichina Vaughn both made auspicious débuts as Elsa and Ortrud respectively; that Georg Zeppenfeld is one heck of a King Henry; that Hans-Joachin Ketelsen's Telramund is also mighty; and that The Tenor in my Life surprised even me with his Lohengrin.
So, yes, incredibly partial comments to follow, but: I hang around him every day, and I still have no idea he how sings so gloriously, so powerfully or for so long. And for all the miraculousness of his Parsifals this year (not to mention everything else), I think last Sunday's Lohengrin is basically the coolest, jawdroppingest and most virtuosic bit of singing I've seen him do since Peter Grimes in Sydney two years ago. Biased I may be, but I ain't deaf, and I don't expect ever to hear Lohengrin sung much better than that.
And I must be on to something, because the response which greeted both the cast as a whole and my own Grail Knight suggested everyone else was as impressed as I was. There was massive applause at the end of every act and for every cast member. There was cheering, and foot-stomping, and the first bow of Lohengrin himself sparked a standing ovation which eventually spread throughout the stalls and into much of the upper levels. Erik Nielsen, the excellent conductor who took over at short notice for an indisposed Adam Fischer, also received his share of wild acclaim.
It was one of those electrically charged evenings, both in silene while the show was in swing and in the clamour when it stopped. All the more impressive when you think that we're talking about a revival which opened on a Sunday afternoon: not exactly a Gala Night. Yet it frequently felt like one. Like I say. Magic.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
This is the Dresden Striezelmarkt. Dating back to 1434, it's one of Germany's oldest Christmas markets. Its 577th incarnation is currently under construction no more than 50 metres from the front door of our apartment building. Tragically, we'll be gone before it's up and running and looking like this. *sob*
